


Wolves Without Teeth

by smallbeans



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst, BAMF Derek, BAMF Stiles, Blood and Gore, Crimes & Criminals, Derek POV, Eventual Smut, Gun Violence, Hurt Derek, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Murder Mystery, Organized Crime, Partnership, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-10-06 18:06:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10341279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallbeans/pseuds/smallbeans
Summary: When Derek watches his sister get killed during a mugging, he contacts an old friend and they work together to find Laura's killer. Only along the way, he finds himself running into something far deeper than a mugging gone wrong, something far darker and more sinister.





	1. sleepsong

**Author's Note:**

> My summaries suck. Apologies!
> 
> The only reason why I'm posting this is because the draft runs out today. I wanted to get the entire fic finished before I posted anything, but obviously that isn't going to happen. 
> 
> NOTE: Stiles isn't actually physically featured until the second chapter!
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Laura stands brightly at the bottom of the escalator, brown hair and dark clothing standing out against the other airport guides and taxi drivers who stand with whiteboards and scrawled names. Derek can't help but smile at the sight of his older sister waiting for him, picking hm up from the airport like a chauffeur.

"Hey, Der-Bear," Laura greets, grin widening impossibly when Derek shoots her a glare.

"I thought I told you stop calling me that?" Derek grumbles as he steps off the escalator and approaches her. He pulls her into a tight hug, his tall and broad body practically engulfing her own smaller and far less muscled one.

"C'mon, Der. When will you realise I don't listen to you?" Laura laughs. They both pull back, still smiling, and they make their way further into the airport, heading for the carpark. "So, how was Mexico?"

"It was good," Derek replies, readjusting his strap on his shoulder. "Could have gone worse, I mean. Y'know, business problems."

"Nothing too bad, I hope. We all know how stress-y you get when you have 'business problems'. Like a teenager during puberty,"

"Shut up," Derek growls, but his tone holds no venom towards his eldest sibling. "How'd the campaign go?"

Laura sighs, and Derek already knows it hasn't gone well. Laura has been campaigning for over a year now for violence justice. Ever since their family fire never got sorted, their case being filed as as unsolved and shoved in a storage room, Laura has been determined to put a stop to the crimes that went unsolved. She started a campaign, building a community of people who agreed the government and Sheriff department weren't working hard enough to solve murders and put criminals in jail. 

Derek is incredibly proud of Laura and her achievements. She'd come so far over the years, her viewers picking up and voice becoming louder with the strong support behind her. Cora is proud too, but their Uncle Peter never was. From the day he recovered from his coma and Laura explained her campaign, Peter had made it his very mission to show his lack of support. He'd told Laura to leave it, to accept that the world was the way it was and there was nothing a small county girl could do to change that. 

"Could be worse," Laura replies shortly as they make their way out into the car park floor. It is very empty, almost all the car spots vacant. "Hey, wanna drive?" Laura grins, shaking the keys in her hand teasingly.

Derek rolls his eyes. "You got your crap-mobil?"

Laura gasps. "Excuse me! Not all of us can drive SUV's and Camaro's!"

Derek laughs, chest shaking. He snatches the keys out of Laura's still teasing hand, pointing out towards the car park and says, "Where'd you park?"

Laura points, and that was when Derek notices the tires are slashed, the rubber sagging onto the parking lot floor.

"What the hell?" Derek snaps angrily.

Laura notices then, "Oh, man! How'd that happen?" She runs a hand through her brown hair. "Should I call AA?"

They approach the car, fuming.

"I'll do it," Derek says, standing by the trunk and pulling out his phone.

"Uh, excuse me, maim, s'cues me," Derek turns around to see a man. "I'm late for my flight, I got my kid waiting in the lobby, I just need a few more bucks for my ticket."

Derek sees Laura beginning to pull out her purse.

"No, not today," Derek says, putting a hand out to basically say 'get away'.

"Come on, man. She's about to give it to me,"

Derek shakes his head and steps away from the trunk. He looks back to Laura, "Get in the car," he tells her. Laura nods, eyes shifting from Derek, to the thug, and back to him. She seems hesitant, but then nods and turns around.

Derek looks back to the guy. "Not today," he repeats, this time slower and sterner.

"For real?" The guy snaps.

"For real,"

"Seriously?'

"Seriously," Derek echoes. "Just back off, okay?"

Barely a moment later, something hard and solid smacks with the back of Derek's head. He barely registers it happening before his body is dropping like a ton of bricks, thoughts scattering and head ringing with pain. He falls forward, face colliding with the car door before dropping to the floor. His eyes un-focus, black haze clouding his vision. His head is burning, whole body coiled with pain.

He is vaguely aware of Laura calling his name, but he can't get a word out before a shoe was colliding with his ribs. Pain blossomed in his abdomen and chest, the kicks burning like fire across his skin. He has no idea if he was groaning or moaning, his ears feel blocked with cotton wool. The world around him is silent, un-hearable, and then suddenly, the cloud around him shatters as a shrill scream echoed in the parking lot.

The kicks and hits continue, but Derek is too dazed to even curl up and protect himself. He grunts as the landed feet smash against his body until suddenly. . . they stop.

"Come on!" Someone is shouting, their voice echoing in the underground parking lot. Derek's head spins as footsteps retreated away from them. "Let's go, lets go!" 

There is a sound of a car starting, a sequence of slamming doors before tires are screeching against the concrete and driving away.

It feels like a lifetime before Derek is able to open his eyes, mouth tasting like copper and eye stinging when the blood from his forehead seeps into it. He blinks rapidly, pushing himself half up off the floor. He goes to shout Laura's name, but the word dies in his throat when he sees a prone form on the ground a few feet away from him, chocolate brown hair spewed on the dirty floor.

His gut fills with dread as he crawls towards her, heart hammering so hard he's scared it might actually burst out of his chest. He grabs Laura's shoulder when he's close enough, rolling her onto her back and directly into his lap. Her eyes stare up at him, only they aren't seeing anything. The irises are lifeless, dazed and unseeing. Derek's heart drops.

His eyes catch a red smear under Laura's coat, as if someone has thrown a bucket of red wine over her white tee.

A sob catches in Derek's throat and he chokes, tears welling up in his eyes and spilling down his cheeks in lines of salty trails. His hands shake against Laura, barely keeping a grip on her dead body. "L-L-Laura," he sobs, sounding so small and fragile. He doesn't care. This isn't happening. This can't be happening. Laura _can't_ be dead, she can't be—

"Oh my god!" Someone screams, and in a flash, Derek is surrounded be people, pulling Laura's disturbingly lax body out of his arms and demanding someone to phone an ambulance.

*****

Hours later, Derek finds himself sitting a uncomfortable plastic chair in the BH Sheriff Department. The door to the office opens, and Derek looks up through blurry eyes. A tall, squared male walks in, blonde hair spiked up. He's dressed in a formal suit, two cups of coffee in hand.

"Hello, Mr Hale. I'm Detective Whittemore, Beacon Hills PD," he sits down at his desk, setting down the two cups of coffee, one in front of him and the other in front of Derek. He briefly fusses over his tie as if to do something with his hand. He frowns when he sees Derek, eyes zeroing on his face. "How's that cut?" He asks, and when Derek frowns, he motions to his own forehead. "The cut on your forehead, wow. You know, cuts in the forehead bleeds a lot, the blood can get in your eyes. Did you, uh, manage to get a good look at the suspect?"

"Yes," Derek replies, voice hoarse from crying. He feels like he should be embarrassed: a grown man crying, but he's too mentally and physical numb to care. He'd completely forgot about the cut on his forehead that they had to stitch. "I saw him before he hit me. But there was more than one. I only heard them, but there was like, two or three."

"Did you get a look at the vehicle?"

"They assaulted me. I was face down on concrete," Derek glares, anger rising. Was this Detective stupid?

The door opens and another officer walks in.

"Where's the sketch artist?"

"I'll get him," Detective Whittemore stands up, motioning to the other officer. "Mr Hale, this is my partner, Detective Raeken, he is going to ask you a few more questions." He says before exiting the room.

Detective Raeken slowly crosses the room. He, too, is dressed in a tidy suit, his hair styled up and formal, a clipboard in his hand. Derek breaths deeply through his nose, holding back any more tears. He's cried enough now.

"Sir, I can't even imagine what you must be going through," the Detective says, leaning against the front of the desk and resting the clipboard again his thigh. Derek looks up at him, meeting the piercing blue eyes. "But, you should know that every little detail is going to get us closer to the people that did this, and it's best to do this when the memory's fresh."

Derek breaths raggedly, barely holding back the sob itching his throat.

"Sorry," the detective apologises. "I make this speech way too often," he waits a moment, then asks, "Mr Hale, what was your relationship like with your sister?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?" Derek snaps, but the bite in his voice falls as his tone cracks and wavers.

The Detective doesn't falter. "Just a standard question, sir."

Derek looks at him coldly. "Do you have siblings, detective?"

"No," Detective Raeken replies after a moment.

"Well, then you wouldn't know," Derek snarls. "You wouldn't understand—"

"I used to," Detective Raeken cuts him off. "I used to have a sister, but she died a few years ago."

Derek swallows thickly. "Then have some sympathy. You must know what this feels like."

"I do, Mr Hale," the detective leans forward. "And I also understand the relationship siblings can have, so I need to understand the relationship you had with your sister."

"I loved her," Derek whispers, worried if he spoke a fraction louder then his voice would crack and crumble. "She was my sister. I would never—" he broke off, breathing breathlessly.

"I understand, Mr Hale," Raeken says, and Derek stuggles to detect the softness of his tone. He sounds almost bored now. "Can I ask you some more questions?"

Derek wipes his eyes and squares his shoulders. He nods wordlessly.

*****

Derek's only ever been to two funerals in his whole 26 years of life.

The first, was his great-grandfather David's. He was 10, so young he didn't really understand the concept of death, let alone the point of a funeral. He spent the entire ceremony dry faced, looking around at the glassy eyes with unshed tears and frowning when his mothers shoulders shook with sobs.

6 years later, he attended the last funeral he'd ever thought he'd have to witnessed. 9 bodies were buried that day. His parents, his two aunties, two uncles and four cousins. By that age, he understood death. He understood that his parents were dead, that his family was dead and those who were alive were permanently damaged. He hadn't spent a moment of that day with dry eyes. Instead they were red, swollen and constantly glossy with tears. His whole world had been torn apart, heart ripped out of his chest. He stood dressed in black, face white and pale, matching his siblings.

And now, another ten years on, Derek is at a funeral he'd never imagined he'd have to attend. 

He stands before the coffin, eyes already filling with cold tears that burn his sore eyes. He's dressed in black again, the void of colour suddenly suffocating. His world is crumbling again, chest empty and hands shaking.

Laura lies in the open coffin, white body clothed with her best black dress and tights, feet covered with her favourite blood red Doc Martens. It was such a Laura outfit, it almost makes Derek choke a wet laugh. She looks peaceful, something that isn't far as comforting as people say it is. He doesn't see her peaceful and clean and dressed. He see's her bloody, eyes wide and glazed over, clothes stained red and skin cold. He see's her dead body in the airport car park, and that's all he'll ever see.

The hall behind him is empty, apart from for Cora, Isaac and the priest holding the ceremony. He has minutes till guests arrive. Minutes to get his final words across before he flees like a frightened animal. 

Derek blinks rapidly as tears burn his eyes, blurring his vision. His back us as stiff as a board, muscles tense and face stony, trying to conceal his feelings, his heartbreak. 

"People are starting to arrive," Cora says, looking behind them at the opening door.

Derek swallows thickly. "I'm gonna go."

"Derek. . ." Cora starts, sadness clear as glass in her voice.

"I can't. . ." Derek chokes, letting out a shuddering breath. He shakes his head, ducking his face to hide the fat tear that rolls down his cheek. "I can't see people right now, Cora."

"Everyone's going to ask about you," Cora sighs, but it doesn't sound annoyed. It sounds hollow and empty, broken and shattered. His sister should never feel that way, Derek realises. 

"I know," Derek whispers, voice close to cracking. "But I only came to say good bye to her."

Cora stares at him for a moment, eyes red and swollen. Her gaze is piercing, but then it softens, and she nods. "Okay. Whatever you need, call me," she says, voice solid with seriousness. The corners of her lips quirked up in a small attempt at a smile, "I love you."

Derek nods, unable to bring himself to even smile. "I love you too. I'll see you later."

He turns to leave, catching a short glance of the people slowly filing through the glass double doors at the end of the church room. 

"Derek," Cora calls behind him, and he turns to look at her. "Do you want Isaac to drive you home?"

Derek shakes his head. "No no, I'm good. It's fine, I'll be fine."

The lies tastes bitter on his tongue, and he knows Cora doesn't believe a fragment of it. She just gives him a mirrored look of pain and sadness, shoulders dropping. Isaac appears at her side, arm snaking around her waist and pulling her into him for support. He flashes Derek a smile of sympathy, and Derek nods in return.

"Mr Hale," the priest says, coming into his vision with a passive expression. 

"Yes, Deaton?" Derek asks, not in the right state of mind to even speak to him with authority. Alan Deaton has been a family friend to the Hales for longer than Derek can remember, so when he had found out he had insisted he organised the ceremony to say goodbye to yet another Hale member. 

"Do you arrangements meet your satisfaction?" Deaton asks, voice slow and cryptic. His words are like water, smooth and cold, flowing over the surface. 

"They're fine," Derek replies shortly. He wants to leave, he wants to get out and be alone.

"Then shall we join your friends and family to say goodbye to Laura together?" 

Derek narrows his eyes. "They're already gone, and so is she."

A flash of guilt filters into Deaton's blank expression. Evidently he realised his mistake. "Mr Hale, I—"

"Good bye, Deaton," Derek says, cutting him off and turning before he can say another word. Derek marches out of the church with his head down and chest empty.

*****

Derek goes straight home. When he enters his flat, he isn't surprised to be met by cold air and darkness. His curtains are closed still, untouched since the day he got home. Derek kicks off his shoes and goes into his bedroom, dropping down on the side of the bed.

He doesn't move for hours, lost in a unexplainable place inside his head. When he finally comes back to the present, his cheeks are wet and the sun had gone down, the apartment shadowed black. Derek stands up, muscles and joints popping from the stiff, still position he'd been slouched in for hours. He goes into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of whiskey, ignoring the rational idea of food. He can't remember the last time he ate something that didn't come out of a ready-meal packet or a tin. It doesn't matter though. He isn't hungry and has little to no motivation to even throw something in the oven. 

Back in his bedroom, Derek sits on the edge of the bed where he had been only minutes before. His mind feels like a void, a spinning record of the same thoughts. The same scream, the same cry, the same look in his dying sisters eyes before they glazed over forever.

Laura is dead, and it is hitting him harder than anything before.

When his parents and family died years before, Derek had someone to lean on. He had Laura to be his crutch, and Laura was brilliant. She masked her own pain and helped Derek deal with his, holding him when he cried and taking it solidly when he screamed and cried at her, shouting out his misery because he didn't know how else to channel it. 

But now, Derek has no one to lean on. He has no shoulder to cry on or arms to wrap around his shoulders and rock him side to side, talking him softly through panic attacks and reassuring him over and over again that it wasn't his fault. Instead, he has another grave stone and more blood on his hands.

The ringing of a phone startles Derek so bad he almost drops the half drunk glass of whiskey.

"Fuck," he mumbles, dragging a hand down his face. He is exhausted, and not just the 'an early night will fix it' kind of exhaustion, but instead a hollow, bone deep kind of exhaustion that was so imbedded into your soul that no amount of sleep will fix it. He is mentally, physically, and emotionally _tired_.

He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and swipes the answer bar before it can go to voicemail.

"Hello?" he sighs.

"Hey, Derek. It's me, just checking in. You okay?" Cora greets, voice soft and gentle as it filtered through the phone speaker.

"I'm fine," Derek replies, putting down the glass of whiskey from his shaking hands.

Cora hums, unconvinced. "Don't lie to me, Derek."

"I'm fine, Cora," Derek assures, more strongly this time. He will be fine, just... not right now. "You and Isaac doing okay?"

"We're fine, you don't need to worry about us," Cora says. "I'm more worried about you."

Derek sighs again. "You don't need to worry about me, Cora. I can look after myself."

"That's a matter of opinion," the snark holds no heat, showing the true colours of Cora's mood. "Seriously, though, are you sure you're okay staying on your own? I can always get the spare room set up. Might be nicer than being alone in that gloomy old apartment of yours."

Derek shakes his head, despite the fact that Cora can't see him. "I don't. . . I'd rather be here, Cora. You know how I am."

"Yeah, antisocial and all," Cora replies, and this time fondness floods her tone. Derek quirks a small smile, a familiar warmth blooming momentarily in his chest. 

"Get some rest," Derek says after a long moment of silence.

"Yeah, you too, bro. Call me if you need me, and I mean it. Anything at all, call me or Isaac."

"I will,"

"And, Derek?" Cora asks, sounding nervous and cautious.

"Yeah?"

"Promise me you won't blame yourself for this," Cora whispers, words as fragile as glass. "It wasn't your fault, you know that, right?"

Derek swallows thickly. "Just try and get some sleep."

"Love you," Cora says.

"Yeah," Derek replies. "I love you too."

*****

"Thank you for coming back in, Mr Hale," Detective Whittemore greets when Derek walks into the sheriff station on the musky Wednesday morning.

"What's happening?" Derek asks, following the Detective to the front desk. He watches Detective Whittemore grab a file from the top of a pile and turn to face him.

"Well, we have may have gotten lucky, Mr Hale. We've found a collection of suspects that match your description."

Derek's eyebrows rise an impossible amount. "W-What?" He stuttered, mouth and throat dry.

Detective Whittemore nods. "I can't promise anything, Mr Hale, but we just want to get your case sorted and your sisters death solved. We managed to pick up a few that matched what you told the artist, so we're going to bring them in and if you see the one, problem solved."

Derek nods, feeling shaky and uneasy. "Right. Okay."

"Follow me," Detective Whittemore says, and Derek complies.

Detective Whittemore and Detective Raeken, who joins them as they leave the station reception, lead Derek into a small square room with a table in the middle. The wall facing the table is made of glass, and beyond is a dark room.

The detectives sit down without a word and Derek follows in suit.

"Send them in," Detective Raeken shouts.

A ring sounds, like a prison alarm and Derek barely refrains from flinching. The door behind the sheet of glass opens and five men, all with their hands tied together by the wrists in front of them, walk in a orderly fashion. One after the other, they walk up a small set of stairs and stand in front of the board with large measurements on it.

Derek looks at each guy, heart pounding in his chest like a firing gun. They all look different slightly, heights and shape. It was almost a nightmare coming true, being face to face with his possible sister's murderer.

"Turn to the right, gentlemen," Detective Whittemore directs, and the cuffed men do as asked. Their motions are lethargic and slouched, careless and exasperated.

Derek's eyes glanced over every one of them, taking in every ounce of their appearance, drinking it in and thinking back to make as many connections as he could.

The guy on the far right side is the tallest, brown hair as short as a buzzcut. His leather jacket is snug around his biceps, blue jeans ripped and tatty, but it wasn't him. Derek can see fragments and details of the male that doesn't match his sisters killer. The next two are the same, their faces too narrow or build too big.

"Turn forward," Detective Whittemore demands. "Eye's up, guys. Let's see your faces."

Derek narrows his eyes at the fourth suspect. His face is the same round shape, lips twisted into a grim line just as the killers had been.

"The second one," Derek murmurs, eyes glued and frozen. His heart is hammering.

"Number two, up front," Detective Raeken translates, and the guy waltzes forward a few steps with a careless sway.

Something inside Derek's chest snaps violently. His mind flashes and he stands up abruptly. "That's him," he says, voice rising. "That's him!"

"Are you sure, Mr Hale?" Detective Whittemore asks from where he is still sitting. "You had blood in your eyes. Did you see his face properly?"

"No, I didn't. . ." Derek shakes his head, eyes still locked on the male beyond the glass. He sighs, exasperated. "I didn't have blood. I wasn't hit yet. That's him."

"You told us in your statement that he had green eyes. You seemed fairly sure," Detective Whittemore says, and Derek turns to face him with a cold glare. Was he suggesting. . .

"This is a homicide case, Mr Hale. We can't go on a guess," Detective Raeken adds.

Derek throws his hands up and snaps, "I thought he had green eyes! It could have been a trick of the lights, we were in a underground car park. I— that's him! I'm certain of it. That is him."

There is a moment of horrid silence, the only sound is Derek's heavy, rushed breathing. He feels like he was suffocating, starved of oxygen. His veins burn with rage and vengeance to strangle the bastard beyond the glass, only a few feet away from him.

"Okay," Detective Jackson says, finally. He stands up, grabbing the file from the table he'd brought in but hadn't touched since.

Derek freezes. "'Okay' what?"

"Okay, we're done," Detective Whittemore replies shortly, tucking his chair under the table. Derek turns to face him, face draining of colour and shocked.

"That's it?"

Detective Whittemore nods. "That's it. All done."

"I—. . ." Derek licks his dry lips, unsure of what to do with himself. It all feels too easy, over too soon. "Thank you."

"Not a problem, Mr Hale. Thank you for coming in so soon,"

Derek nods shakily. "Right, y-yeah. I'll, uh—" he motions behind him to the door. "I'll go."

Derek doesn't go. When he walks back out into the reception, he is filled with the need and hunger to see the murderer in cuffs. He takes a seat on the wooden bench by the desk, waiting and brooding like a boiling broth.

It is fifteen minutes before the office door opens, and Derek turns his head in time to see the thug being lead out. Only, he isn't in cuffs, and he is being lead to the front desk instead of the cell doors. Derek feels his heart race, watching in horror as the thug is handed a clear bag of possessions over the desk counter and follows a deputy to the front doors.

Their eyes meet, a cold, harsh gaze shared between the two. Derek feels his insides freeze, bitter, sharp rage curling up like a whipping tail. The guy smirks, corner of his lips curling upwards. The smirk is a punch to the gut, slow and sly like a snake as the thug slithers out of the Sheriff station, untouched and _free_.

Derek can't breath. He can't think clearly, mind swirling and spiralling. The guy has been let off, he's been let go without a slap on the wrists!

Detective Raeken and Detective Whittemore exit the same room moments later, and Derek is standing and charging towards them before he realises it.

"What happened?" Derek snarls, looking between the suited men and the closing building door where his sisters murder had walked out moments before. "Why did you let him go?"

"Keep your voice down, Mr Hale—" Detective Whittemore begins, but it's only fuel to Derek's rage like oxygen to a flame.

"No! No, you keep _your_ voice down!" Derek snaps.

Detective Raeken steps forward an inch, hands up and shaking his head as though Derek is a troubled toddler in the mist of a hissy-fit. "Don't make this worse, Mr Hale."

"Worse? _Worse?!_ " Derek bellows. "What could possibly be worse than the man who killed my sister walking out of here like it's a joke! Like it's nothing!"

Detective Whittemore sighs, exasperated and low. "Even if we bring him back, it's not going to help your case."

Derek gapes, appalled and cheated. He crosses his arms over his chest, glaring and snarled, "Okay then, how will I help my case? Tell me."

"Time," 

Derek raises a single, thick eyebrow. Unamused. "Time?"

"These types don't live long. He'll OD. He'll get himself killed—"

"Oh, Jesus Christ," Derek curses. He drops his face in his hand, shaking his head. He looks up. "You want me to go home and _hope_ that he _dies_. Is that it?"

When the Detectives nods, Derek curses again. He can't believe this is happening, he can't believe they are this calm and laid back about a killer walking the streets.

"Mr Hale, I'd like to hang most of the shit bags who walk through here," Detective Raeken starts. "But I can't, and neither can you."

Derek breaths in and out, lungs filling heavily. He deflates, beat and emotionally exhausted. 

"You know what?" He says. "You're right. It's not my job, it's yours."

Detective Whittemore nods, "It is."

Derek shakes his head. "Un-fucking-believable," he curses, turning around and storming out of the station. He throws the door open, feeling a small satisfaction when he hears the hinges crack and the door handle collide with the brick wall outside.

*****

"Derek?" Cora asks, bursting through the bar door and noticing him instantly. Derek doesn't bother looking over his shoulder from where he is hunched over on a bar stool, hand supporting a glass of whiskey. "Derek, I've been trying to call you for the past hour. What happened? Did they catch him?"

"Yeah, they caught him," Derek says, voice heavy. "And then they let him go."

Cora stiffens at his side. "What?" She whispers, tone cold and unwavering. Derek doesn't need to see her to know she is practically vibrating in her seat.

"They told me I wasn't a credible witness," Derek explains.

"They let that piece of shit walk?" Cora snarls.

Derek rubs a hand down his face. "They don't care about Laura. It's just another dead body to them."

"That's bullshit!" Cora snaps. "How could they do this? They have no right to—"

"They're not going to do anything, Cora. Let it go,"

"Let it go?" Cora hisses. " _Let it go?_ Derek, Laura has been murdered and those assholes have let the murderer out! How can we just let this go?"

"The police aren't going to do anything, okay? No matter how much we scream and shout, the police have closed the case. It's over."

Derek finally meets Cora's eyes, and he instantly regrets it. Her face is cold and masked, but Derek can see through the crumbling guards, he cab see the vulnerability and helplessness underneath. He understands, too, because Laura was all their rocks and now she's gone, they're falling.

"We have to do something, Derek. We can't just let them get away with it. We have to do something, for Laura," Cora says, and despite the tears in her eyes, she sounds determined and angry.

"We don't know what we're up against, Cora,"

"Yes, we do. We're up against a nobody, just another drugging, dealing piece of shit that no one will miss. We'd be doing the world a favour by giving him what he deserves," Cora snarls, and Derek is taken back. He doesn't like the hatred and hunger in her voice. Doesn't like the way this was the same sister who cried at Marley and Me, no matter how many times she'd watched it. The same sister who has a partner and a six year old son.

Derek can't let Cora get caught up in the world of guns and violence.

"I'll figure something out, okay?" He says. "But for now, I'm just gonna go home."

Cora's face softens somewhat. "Hey, why don't you stay with us tonight? We could talk about it."

"No thanks, Cor," Derek sighs, downing the rest of his whiskey in one gulp and standing up. He adjusts his leather jacket and bends down to give Cora a kiss on the forehead. "I just wanna be alone."

*****

Grief is like a huge black hole. Derek had felt this consuming grief before, months and months dragging out after his family were burnt to ash.

The first stage was shock and numbness, were your bones are seeping in coldness, everything is heavy and weighted like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Denial comes in next, like a blinding cloud masking everything you see. You believe you're fine, that it no longer hurts and the more you say it, the more you believe it. And then emotional outbursts hit you like a tidal wave. You're crushed under the swamps of anger and fear, emotional and physical pain lacing your every thought and movement. You start searching for the answer and justice of your loss, searching for peace and comfort and acceptance. But it doesn't come yet. Next, you feel guilt and loneliness. You realise the loved on is gone, that you'll never see them again. The laughter, the sounds and the tones of their voice will never be heard again. The look in their eyes, glow of their skin and annoying habits you hate will never take your nerves again. It hits you like a sucker punch to the gut, sudden and sharp. Isolation and depression tumbles in like a shadow, and you don't realise you're falling in until someone smacks you around the back of the head and tells you.

And then things start looking up. You try again, try for new beginnings, new routines and hobbies. You try to create a new you, as if it would solve the gaping hole in your aching chest. You try to expand your social circle, meeting and talking to new people. You try to solve the puzzle of grief, filling the void with fresh faces, with nothing that reminds you of what you've lost.

But grief never stops. The hole is never filled, the wound never heals and the pain never ceases. It just eases, loosens the ties of resilience. You begin to function again, movements slow and cautious as if afraid you'll fall back into the spiral of grief and loss. It doesn't stop, it only gets easier.

Derek is at the stage of emotional outbursts. He is drowning in his own pain, his own misery. He is suffering in silence, too scared to let anyone aware in case he drags them down with him.

Truth be told, Derek is terrified. But he isn't scared of the thugs littering the streets, or the ever increasing crimes of Beacon Hills. He is scared of the loss, he is scared of never being able to function again without Laura. He is petrified, his emotions flying like a loss of control.

He sits in the dark apartment, the glowing lamps casting dancing shadows around him. His hand is clasped around a thick glass of rich whiskey, the brown liquid sloshing in the base of the container as he swings his hand back and forth, eyes pinned on the wall beyond him. His gazed boards through the plaster and wallpaper of the wall, seeing the metal box disguised behind the normal looking wall. The box that holds his past, his mistakes and his identity. The life he threw away when Laura told him to stop, when his job began to spiral, becoming more than an assigned mission. 

A hole is ever growing in Derek's chest. A void, dark and hollow and empty. He feels like a vessel, like a scooped out Jack'O'Lantern. He can't sit there anymore, he can't wait around for the void to fill or emptiness to be replaced. He throws his head back, swallowing the last mouthful of whiskey. It burned its way down his throat and he slams the glass down beside him, rising from his chair. 

He grabs his keys from the hook beside the door before he leaves. Downstairs, he finds his car, the sleek black Camaro parked in the corner of the car park like a shadow. It reminds him horribly of Laura, of their last minutes were they had laughed about her poor choice in car and Derek's rich one. Despite having the car long before Laura expressed her hate for it, Derek still feels a pang of melancholy piece his heart like a sharp icicle. 

He drives aimlessly for hours, the radio on mute so the car is silent minus for the low hum of the revving engine. The dimly lit streets of Beacon Hills supply minimum distraction for the grieving Hale, his mind scattered and thoughts spiralling. 

He turns the corner in order to head home, deciding he's wasted enough expensive fuel for one night, when he sees him. Standing on the streets edge with another two males, is the thug that got let out for murder. His sisters killer.

Something cold sparks inside of Derek and he watches him as he drives past, eyes never leaving the thug who looks relaxed and calm as he proceeds an evident drug exchange. 

As soon as the thug is behind him, Derek slams the accelerator and speeds home. He parks hazardly, taking up two spaces because he's too angry and rallied up to bother reversing. There's only another three people who drive in the apartment building, so he couldn't give less of a shit. 

He takes the stairs two at a time, hands shaking when he unlocks his apartment door and slams it shut so hard the hinges groan. He throws his keys down, storming through the small home. He grabs his crow-bar from under his bed, the metal cold and light in his large hands. He stood at the foot off his bed, staring at the blank white wall.

He smashs the crow-bar into the surface, white plaster spraying back in flakes and lumps. Derek doesn't flinch as he keeps hitting and hitting and hitting, his rage pouring out of him and landing on the crumpling wall.

The surface falls away, beaten and battered. He throws the dusty crow-bar down, careless for the carpet as he manually pulls away the last remaining bits of standing wall. 

The metal box lays before him, covered in white dust and debris from the wall. Derek reaches in, pulling it out and laying it on his bed. He unclasps the locks, stiff from lack-of-use over the last few years.

The lid swings open to reveal the spread of guns and knives. 

Derek stars at them for a moment, drinking them in and scanning over every little detail.

He grabs his phone from his back pocket, scrolling down his contact list. Derek taps a name he never imagined he'd ring again.

It answers after three rings, the rough, static voice filtering through.

"I'm sorry about Laura," is the first thing Stiles says. His voice is deeper than Derek remembers, or perhaps it's just the phone.

"I need names," Derek replies, straight to the point. He doesn't have time for the grieving speech again. It's all he thought about and heard all week. He's on a mission now, focused and mind zeroed.

He is going to kill the bastards that did killed Laura, even if it was the last thing he does.


	2. bad blood

Derek is parked outside the barber shop on West Lane. The road around him is empty, parking spots vacant as the early morning sun rolls up into the sky. Derek eyes the barber shop from inside his car, heaving a breath before he climbs out and crosses the road.

The doorbell chimes above his head when he walks in, the door clicking softly shut behind him. The shop is empty, dimly lit and retro inside.

"Hello?" Derek calls out, but he is only met with silence.

Crossing the floor, Derek approaches one of the leather reclined chairs. He strips his leather jacket, folding it and depositing it on a different chair before sitting down in the end one. To his left, he catches eye of a white cigarette box, left open and abandoned. He reaches across, picking it up with gentle hands and placing one of the rolled paper lengths between his lips. He places the box back and swipes the lighter off the worktop, curling a hand around the end of the cigarette and flicking on the flame. It catches alight with a faint crackle as the paper and tobacco plant begin to burn, the nicotine crawling it's way down Derek's throat. 

Derek takes a long drag, removing the cigarette to blow out a white cloud of smoke before placing it back. 

Movement to his right catches his eye and suddenly, something small and metallic swipes in front of his face, inches from his skin as the cigarette is sliced in half. He jerks, hand shooting out and grabbing the person's arm holding the small blade and gripping it tight. His eyes meet the familiar cinnamon ones, burning bright as they stare into his own.

Stiles catches the end of the chopped cigarette as it falls through the air, landing in his hand smoothly. He casts a glance down at his wrist where Derek is holding his death grip.

"There's no smoking in the shop," Stiles says, proceeding to put the cigarette in his mouth.

Derek raises an eyebrow, the other end of the sliced cigarette still between his lips. "There your cigarettes, asshole," he mumbles around the rolled paper.

Stiles smirks, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaling a white cloud. "There's defiantly no stealing in the shop either."

Derek remembers the first day he ever met Stiles Stilinski. It was a Wednesday in November, well over five years ago. He'd only been 16 then, hanging about at the Sheriff station waiting for his dad when Derek strolled with, coming to hand in a CV for a job. He was desperate and the station were hiring people to do filing and lunch runs. Stiles had been leaning over the reception desk, limbs gangly and long, uncoordinated and clumsy as he gracelessly tried to grab a cup of coffee on the unsupervised desk surface.

Derek was hired a few days later and everyday, at 4:00PM on the dot, Stiles would walk in with a brown bag of salad and a decaf coffee for his father. Derek doesn't remember when they started interacting, he just remembers hating stiles with a boiling passion to begin with. But he grew on Derek, like a fungi that refused to move.

A lot of things have changed since those innocent times at the station, sorting files together when Stiles was too board to go home and helping John Stilinski with difficult cases. Stiles was only a kid then, mind clean from violence and blood, trying to help his father was bad cases.

Stiles has changed since Derek saw him last, which is no surprise as the pair hadn't seen each other in three years. Stiles has grown a lot since he was 18, and not just in height. He's grown into his shoulders, lost the gangly teenage limbs. He's still thin, but his arms are shadowed with toned muscle, face sharper with a fair coating of recently shaven stubble lining his jaw. His hair has grown from its old buzzcut, and the summer Derek had left, he'd been growing it out. But now, the chocolate brown hair was cow licked up in hazardous, chaotic strands.

"It's been a while since I've seen you," Stiles says as he steps around the back of the chair. A moment later, he's sliding a black sheet around Derek's front and strapping it at the back with a strip of velcro.

Derek shifts in the chair. "Well, there's a lot of things I haven't done for a while," he says. "I'm an uncle now."

Stiles nods, coming back around the front with a small bowl and a thick brush. He begins applying the shaving paste to Derek's jaw and cheeks. "Nice. So you've accepted Cora and Isaac being together?"

"Defiantly not," Derek replies instantly. He will never get used to his younger sister having a boy friend, let alone a child. Derek knows and trusts Isaac, but it still doesn't sit right with him.

Stiles puts the paste down on the counter behind Derek, coming back in front of him with a small knife. He lines it up the middle of Derek's neck, and Derek can't hold back the full body flinch when the cold metal touches his skin.

Stiles sighs above him. "Der, trust,"

"I do," Derek replies, but the words fall short and even he can hear the lie in his voice.

"No, you really don't," Stiles says. Derek notices how he sounds almost sad. "You still have a lot of issues."

As much as Derek wants to throw Stiles against the wall for saying it, he knows the younger male was right. Derek does have trust issues, but he also has every right to. His family was murdered right under his nose, scarring him at such a young and vulnerable age. And now, only years later, another member of his ever shrinking family has been snatched from him.

"I think I have every right to be untrusting," Derek says, finally.

Stiles breaths heavily above him. "You can trust me. You used to, anyway,"

"I do trust you, Stiles,"

Stiles scoffs. "Yeah, and I'm the next USA top model."

Derek wants to snap that Stiles probably would easily win America's next top model - especially now - but his mind is locked in defensive mode.

"Stiles, just—" Derek stops himself, swallowing down the frustration. "Don't question my trust."

The chair he is sitting in suddenly spun around harshly, and he finds himself facing Stiles, who is sitting on the counter behind him.

"Okay, you want to talk about trust?" Stiles asks. "Then you trust me when I tell you to give it up."

"Give what up?"

"This mission of yours,"

Derek growls. He can't believe _Stiles_ was arguing this with him. "They killed her for nothing. _Nothing_ , Stiles!" He roared.

"Look at me, Derek. I get it, okay? My dad got killed the same was Laura did," Stiles snaps, and Derek deflates. He'd forgotten Stiles' dad had died during a gang fight a few years ago, getting caught in the cross fire. Derek doesn't know exactly how the sheriff got killed, only that he declined the invitation to the funeral and hoped Stiles was doing okay. He regrets not coming back to see his old friend, but Beacon Hills was still to much of a raw memory. "You're hurting, and I get that you want vengeance—"

Derek's head snaps up from where he'd been staring into his lap. "I want justice—"

Stiles shakes his head and cut him off, "You want _vengeance_ , Derek, I know you."

Derek shakes his head quickly. "No. I'm doing this, I have to, and that's it."

Stiles sighs, shoulders dropping. He gives Derek a exasperated look, and Derek's chest hurts in the memory of how their roles used to be reversed. But now its Stiles who's looking fed up, angry and torn. "Okay," he says, pushing off the counter and going over to a table in the corner. "You asked for names, I got you names."

He hands Derek a brown A4 envelope. Derek opens in at one end, pulling out a collection of files.

"Low level dealers," Stiles goes onto explain as Derek flips through the pages, half reading. "Cops haul them in ten times a year, yet nothing ever happens."

The pages are full-blown police profiles, records and stacked with personal information. Derek knew he could count on Stiles to get him information like this, research has always been his expertise. Derek comes across a profile with the photo of the guy he'd seen at the police station. The main guy who'd asked for the money and got let out without a single charge.

"What about this guy?" Derek asks, holding up the page so Stiles could see the mugshot.

"I'm still working on him," Stiles replies. After a moment, Derek looking back at the files, Stiles speaks again, "Look I get that this is my way of helping you through your grieving, but this isn't how we do things anymore, Derek," Derek looks up at him. "You sure you want to dive back into this shit?"

"I was thrown back into this," Derek replies.

Stiles shakes his head, leaning back against the counter he'd previously been sitting on. "This isn't the same. What kept us alive back in the day, Derek? It was just a _job_. No emotion, nothing to put a pause on our step or a cloud on our judgement. We had no relation to the people we were chasing. But this. . ." he trailed off, eyes flicking down to the files before back up to meet Derek's eyes.  He shakes his head, "Derek, this ain't good. You really want to go down this road?"

Derek doesn't need to think twice, despite what Stiles said. He needs justice.

"They already know my name, and now I know theirs," Derek stands up, files in hand. "That's all I need." He says, making his way to the door.

At the door, he turns. Stiles is still leaning against the counter, but now he has the box of cigarettes in his hand, placing a small white stick between his lips.

"Thank you, Stiles," Derek says, and its genuine. He knows no one else would have done this for him, or been able to.

Stiles nods, taking the rolled paper from his bow lips and breathing out a white cloud. "Good luck."

*****

The first file Derek rifles through was Aiden. His file holds no last name, apparently even Stiles or the police hadn't been able to suss that one out. Aiden, according to his file, has an identical twin named Ethan, who's file is sitting in Derek's leather bag in the back seat of his car.

He drives down the empty road, the darkness of night surrounding him and only a glow from the flickering street lights. He picks up Aiden's file again, looking grimly at the grainy black and white mugshot from the police. He turns the page over, checking again at Stiles' personal and deeper information that gave Derek Aiden's most popular locations and frequent associates he's been seen with over the last six months. Stiles also managed to snatch up Aiden's police record, filing all of his convictions and arrests, though for some reason none of them fell through and he was let go days after. Every single time.

Derek doesn't dwell on it. There was an obvious snake in the police system, allowing and pitching all these thugs to go. He bets his money it was Whittemore and Raeken, but he doesn't think too hard on it. 

Derek turns right off the interstate lane, pulling into the almost empty car park of beaten up pub. He climbs out of the Camaro, flicked up the hood of his black jacket under his leather one and approaches the barely standing building. When he opens the door, he's hit with usual smell of beer and cigarette smoke in one hot flush, bitterly filling his nose. The pub is low lit, the bar considerably occupied with the customers sipping uncontrollably on pints of beer. 

Derek crosses the floor of the pub and took a vacant spot at the bar, slipping onto a bar stool and hunching his shoulders.

"Whiskey straight," he requests, keeping his head slightly bowed. The bartender nods, plunking a heavy glass down on the counter and filling it half full.

Derek glances down the end of the pub where the pool tables and jukebox machines stand. Crowds of men and barely clothed women stand around, gathered in circles around the tables. 

There is a man standing at the end of the bar, chatting up a girl and smirking like it was the most sexy thing in the world - it wasn't. His blonde hair shines in the low glow of the lights, looking slick and glossy. He twiddles a pool pole in his hand, and suddenly, as if he knew he was being watched, looks directly at Derek.

He bowes his head quickly, avoiding the guy to see his face completely. He assumes it works, for the next time he looks up, Aiden isn't there anymore. He takes a sip of his whiskey, trying to act as natural as possible. He places the glass down again, and moments after he moves his hand, a pool ball comes rolling down the bar surface, fast and quick, hitting the glass and smashing it. The glass explodes into shards, whiskey pouring everywhere. 

Derek finally looks up and meets Aiden's eyes, who's expression falls when he finally recognises him as the brother of the girl he killed.

There's a brief moment between the two, staring intensity, and then Aiden is moving, turning around and dashing out a back door of the bar. Derek is hot on his heels, sprinting to the back door that fell closed behind Aidens quick get away.

Derek wretches the door open, and suddenly bullets are flying at him. He ducks, closing the door to block them. Screams and shouts erupt around him, people in the bar panicking, but Derek doesn't falter. As soon as the shooting stops, he opens the door again and runs out, following down a thin alley way to the back of the building.

He runs out into a yard, gravelled floor and cross linked fences surrounding the acre of space. There's large dustbins and trash bags, but nothing out of the ordinary. Derek creeps into the space, pistol in his hand, eyes scanning the area. There's a crack of movement behind him, and Derek spins around like a light beam, raising the pistol.

"Don't shoot!" Someone shouts, hands up and voice shaking with terror. Derek instantly knows it's not Aiden, glaring at the guy crouched beside the dumpster. Derek lowers the gun, and the guy scurries away on shaky legs.

The familiar feeling of cold metal presses to the back of Derek's head. A gun, he realises. Just brilliant.

"You looking for me?" Aiden asks, voice low and sly. "You must be looking for Jesus too."

Derek growls, spinning around so fast the guy can't react before Derek's knocking the gun out of his hand, landing a solid kick to Aiden's stomach and a punch to his chest. Aiden stumbles back, legs catching underneath him and he drops down, landing hazardly on a pile of filled black bags.

Derek launches over to him, pressing his knee into the guys chest and pressing down hard. He raises his pistol to Aiden's forehead, clicking the barrel so only a twitch of the trigger will have the guys brains painting the floor.

"You know, my sister had a light about her, that you are your scumbag friends sniffed out," Derek snarls, pressing more weight onto Aiden's chest. "For what? A purse? A few bucks?"

The guy frantically shakes his head. "No, man. It ain't nothing like that, that's not how it went down."

"How did it go down? You tell me, then we'll both know,"

"You really don't know, do you?" Aiden laughs, bloody teeth stretched into a grin. "You're fucking clueless!"

"Where's Matt Daehler?" Derek asks, ignoring the maniacal laugh rippling from the delinquents mouth. "Where is he?"

"Up my ass," Aiden snarls, grin dropping and eyes hardening.

Derek looses his patients. He pulls the hand with gun back and slams it down hard into the side of Aiden's face. His head slams to the side, blood spurting from his lips. Derek stands up, raising his pistol so it's aimed directly at Aiden's forehead as he takes a a few steps back, distancing himself.

"What? You're gonna shoot me now?" Aiden asks, face grinning again. He laughs coldly, the rumble sends waves down Derek's spine. His hands are steady but he can still feel the rage swimming through them. "Come on! Hit me with your best shot!"

Derek straightens the gun, ready to shoot when the sound of police sirens reach his ears. He looks around for a brief moment, looking to see if they're close.

"Three minutes,"

Derek looks over his shoulder at the new voice, seeing Stiles standing there in the shadows of the overhead lights makes Derek both annoyed and grateful. He knows what Stiles is talking about: three minutes until the cops turned up.

Derek is about to say something when movement shifted in the corner of his eye. He spins around, seeing Aiden beginning to get up. Derek raises his gun, pulling the trigger at the same time as Stiles does. 

Aiden jerks, dropping back lifelessly onto the black bags.

Derek sighs - there goes his intel. Stiles brushes past him, tucking his gun in the back of his trousers before he crouches down in front of Aiden. Derek pockets his own gun, moving with heavy footsteps towards them.

"What are you doing here?" Derek asks, crouching down next to his old partner.

"Really?" Stiles looks at him humorously. "You don't want backup in a neighbourhood like this?"

Stiles rummages through Aiden's jacket pockets, looking to find anything so Derek does the same. The first thing he finds is a phone, which he shows to Stiles before putting in the duffel bag Stiles had brought.

"Are you kidding me?" Stiles asks, exasperatedly, and he holds up a small bag of white cocaine.

"Just put it in the bag," Derek replies, continuing to search Aiden's dead body for anything else. "Am I supposed to thank you now or something?"

"Thank me, don't thank me. I don't care," Stiles shrugs beside him. "You know,  you've got some really bad attitude problems."

"Shut up, Stiles,"

"I'm serious," Stiles says, and Derek can hear the solidity of his voice. "We need to talk."

"Fine, just—" Derek sighs. "Help me."

Stiles wordlessly nods and the pair stand up and lifted the heavy, lax dead body. Derek can't stop his eyes from wandering across the tense and rippling muscle on Stiles' upper arms. He's wearing a black denim jacket that's a size or two too big on him but Stiles is one of those guys who can wear clothes too big and still looking deliciously attractive.

They dump Aiden in on of the dustbins, dropping his body like a literal bag of trash. Stiles pulls a bottle of petrol out of his bag, uncapping the lid and beginning to pour it into the bin. Derek watches him look around idly, as if to look natural if anyone saw him. Derek shakes his head at the boys antics and lights himself a cigarette. He takes one drag, blowing out the exhale. Stiles chucks the empty bottle in the bin when he's done, picking up the duffel bag at his feet and taking a step back from the dumpster.

Derek throws in the lit cigarette before the pair walked off. Moments later, when they are barely a few feet away, the bin explodes behind them, catching fire in licking orange flames. Stiles jumps and flails at the sudden sound, sending Derek a unamused glare.

"You're meant to go on three!" Stiles shouts.

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes!" He flails and begins to walk again. "It goes one, two, three. Not one, frickin' boom!"

*****

Stiles drives them to a local In'n'Out in his old, baby blue Jeep. Derek's surprised the old thing was still even running, considering it when ancient when Stiles got it at 16. 

Derek waits in the car as Stiles went inside, coming out minutes later with two steaming paper bags, the whole car filling with the smell of fast food burgers and greasy fries.

"I've always said it takes a certain kind of man to wolf down food," Stiles says when Derek finishes his burger in five bites. He hadn't realised how hungry he was.

"Why are you shadowing me?" Derek asks, ignoring the question. "I told you I got this."

"Yeah?" Stiles raises an eyebrow, disbelief clear in his expression. He takes a thick and loud slurp of his milkshake. "Well, so far you've been lucky."

"I got out alive," Derek retorts.

"And where was your secondary escape route?" Stiles asks, turning to him fully, whole body facing Derek on the other side of the car.

Derek rolls his eyes. "Please—"

"You engaged too long. You were exposed. What if the target had a better weapon? Or training? Or back-up?" Stiles stops, sighing exasperatedly. He rubs the bridge of his nose, massaging it as if working off a headache. "Look, Derek, you can't afford to screw this up. You're the only family Cora has left."

"That's on me," Derek says. "Just me. This is my problem, my mission."

"This isn't a fucking mission, Derek! This is you—"

"I asked you for intel. That's it. You're not tasked to do this," Derek snaps.

Stiles looks at him, stoney. Something flashes in his eyes, gone in a second and too quick to identify. "Let me tell you something. When I saw Laura on the news, I was tasked to do this," the hard lines in Stiles' face become more defined when his jaw clenches. His eyes burn with fury, whiskey shining bright with promise and determination. "Do yo think I was surprised when you contacted me? No, I was _waiting_."

Derek forgets how Stiles' mind worked. When something catches his eye, whether it's close to home or a million miles away, Stiles will be on board and ready to sacrifice anything to make it right. Derek should have known better than thinking stiles' involvement would end with the exchange of the files. Laura was practically his family too, it's no wonder he's got as much determination as Derek.

"You were lucky tonight, Derek. Luck will run out on you," Stiles says. "I won't."

*

"It's good to see you eating again," Cora says, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Yeah, well I feel a bit better," Derek shrugs, finishing his mouth of fries. "You know I spoke to an old buddy of mine, and he kinda put things in perspective for me."

Cora frowns. "Who?"

"Well, you wouldn't know him. He's just an old friend," Derek feigns. "But he. . .he said 'you know, Derek, these street guys. . . they're all gonna end up dead soon enough. And maybe you should just let the police do their job'."

"Derek, I know you more than you realise and I know you don't have any friends I don't know about. Now, who is it?"

Derek sighs, why does Cora have to be to persistent? He slouches in the red leather booth. "It's Stiles."

Cora's eyes widen impossibly. "Stiles? As in _Stiles Stilinski_? The ex-sheriff's son?"

Derek npds, closing his eyes and waiting for the chain of curses to follow. "Yes, _that_ Stiles. Do you know any other ones?"

"Dude, I didn't even know you kept in touch. Didn't you two have a massive bitch spat a few years ago when you took an extended holiday to New York?"

Derek rolls his eyes. "It wasn't an extended holiday, Cora. And yes, we do keep in touch. He knew Laura as well as we did, so he got in touch when he saw it on the news and said his condolences."

Cora hums, narrowing her eyes accusingly. "And you're just. . . talking now? Really, Derek?"

"What? What's wrong with talking?"

"You're bad at it, obviously," Cora drawls, and Derek rolls his eyes again.

"Seriously, Cora, drop it. We're talking, big whoop—"

"It is a big whoop, oh oblivious brother of mine, because you have had the biggest girl crush on Stiles for as long as I can remember!"

Derek stiffens, glare hardening enough that the single look could kill. "Cora, stop," he snarled. "I don't have a 'girl crush' on _Stiles_ —"

"Yes, you do. And you know you do because your cheeks still go all red when you say his name—"

"No, they don't,"

"— _but,_ I don't know why in the world he would even want to see you after the stunt you pulled."

"Stunt?"

"Yes, Derek, stunt. You know, when you practically abandoned him after his father died and moved out to New York with nothing but a goodbye text."

Oh, that stunt. Derek slouches in defeat. "That might not have been my finest hour."

"Hmm," Cora hums. "Not by a long shot."

Derek glares again. "What is the point of this interrogation? Can't I speak to someone without you making a huge thing of it?"

"Hey," Cora holds her hands up in mock surrender. "I'm not the one pining ridiculously with a guy I practically ditched after a traumatic experience."

"Cora, I am going to ask you one more time. Drop. It. If Stiles can let it go, so can you,"

"Stiles is a forgiving push-over who is too blinded by his hormones to even remember the shit you pulled on him. I, however, was very good friends with Stiles and remember how torn up he was when he got your text. I have I told you about him storming over to our house to see if you' left yet and practically collapsing on our porch when I told him you'd gone?"

"Yes, Cora, you've told—"

"Then you know that Stiles was in a bad place at the time and you're little flee only made it worse," Cora snaps, voice cold and defensive. Derek knows he screwed up, hell, everyone knows Derek screwed up. He'd heard all of this from Laura when she phoned, telling him how Stiles had finally passed out on their couch after hours of crying because of his dad and Derek.

He still feels awful, but he'd seen Stiles since New York, years ago when he moved back to town and they'd had their fight there and then. Now, though Derek can't be sure he's 100% forgiven, Stiles seems to have let it go enough to be civil.

"Stiles didn't deserve that, Derek. He was my friend too, and seeing him so destroyed hurt. And I'm not prepared to see it a second time, so you better keep your dick in your pants and _do not_ fuck this up again."

"I know," Derek sighs. "And I'm sorry."

Cora nods. "Good. Now, I was thinking," she breaks off, folding her arms and leaning them against the table. "I'm gonna pack up some of Laura's stuff. I thought it'd be a good idea to get it out of the house. If that's okay with you."

"Yeah," Derek replies, slightly caught in surprise. He shakes his head, "yeah, of course. I think. . . I think that would be best."

Cora smiles slightly. "Okay. Well, if Isaac and I can borrow the SUV, we could come by tomorrow before his shift."

"Okay, well then I'll just leave the keys on the hook," Derek says, feeling a bit lost at the whole thought of Laura's stuff being taken away. He knows it's only Cora, but the thought of it all still makes him feel panicky, as if someone was removing her entire existence.

He knows the thoughts spiralling around in his head are ridiculous, but they still gnaw at him as he stares at the now cold chips on his plate.

"Derek?" Cora asks, voice uncharacteristically soft and gentle. Derek's head snaps up, finding her face torte with concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Derek says quickly - too quickly. "I'm fine. I'm okay, honest."

His phone beeps in his pocket and when he pulls it out, he see's he had a text from Stiles.

_Time for a shave._

Derek knows what this means, quickly pocketing his phone.

"Who's that?" Cora asks as Derek adjusts his leather jacket back on. The cafe they are sitting in was hot and stuffy from the kitchen so he'd taken it off earlier, but now he was leaving.

"Stiles," Derek says. "I told him I'd see him today. I should probably get going."

"Okay," Cora nods.

*****

Stiles opens the door to his barber shop with one swift sweep, gliding into the room with light steps. Derek follows behind, looking like a body guard more than a partner.

"Hey, boys," Stiles greets the other workers in the shop, crossing the floor in fast strides.

"Hey boss," they reply in unison, some of the not even looking up from their coordinated work on the customers.

"We'll be downstairs, checking the pipes," Stiles says, standing in front of the door in the far corner that read 'staff only' in bold black letters on a bit of white paper. "Josh, you got a parking ticket, smartass."

Derek hears the faint curse of said 'Josh' as he follows Stiles into the back room. Instantly, he finds himself standing on a metal landing, a series of steps to his right. Stiles descends down them quickly and Derek follows.

"We do pretty well at the barber shop," Stiles begins explaining as they scurry down the metal steps, the metallic ring echoing against the walls. "We still run a little intel on the side. Custom made weapons, that kind of thing. Just enough to keep life interesting."

At the bottom of the stairs, they round a corner that lead to a corridor, walls painted white and gas and water pipes running visibly along the ceiling. There is a strobe light casting a bright, illuminant white light that reflected off the walls. They make their way down the corridor and at the end, they are met with a junction. On either side of the walls are doors, both open and leading to separate rooms.

In one, is a target range, three hung up body targets a distance away, sound proof insulation on the walls and a metal table at the firing line. On the other side in the other room is what looked like a conference room. The walls are black, as is the flooring. There is a large table in the centre, piled high with files and paper. There are various boards all around the walls of the room, made of glass and covered in bits of evidence and coloured string.

"Wow," Derek says, idly. "Nice set-up."

"Thanks," Stiles replies, sounding like he wasn't really listening. "Now, I know you really love your beretta and crank gun, but you need options," he pauses, motioning to the metal table by the firing range that is set out with a range of different pistols spread out on it. "Right tool for the job. Come here."

Stiles turns and walked into the other room, waving Derek to follow him. He leads Derek to the head of the table, talking as he goes, "If you find some asshole who wants to get up close and personal with you. . ." He opens a metal brief case, revealing a set of knives. "Viola."

"Impressive," Derek comments, approaching the brief case and picking up on the glisteningly clean knives. It feels heavy in his hand, but light and swift at the same time. The blades are thin, sharp and deadly. "Damn."

"Self-protection," Stiles goes on, coming back to Derek's side with a body vest. "Latest and greatest in body armour. Check that out. It's like putting silk on your ass."

Derek ignores the strange simile and instead checks out the green vest. It's good, he has to admit. He didn't realise Stiles has become so knowledgable when it comes to weapons and supplies. Sure, they had done their fair share of taking down criminals back in the day and Derek had to admit, Stiles was one hell of a brilliant shooter and agent. Derek just wasn't expecting him to still be so deep in it all.

"Any luck with that cell phone?" Derek asks.

"Ah, it's gonna take a little bit of time," Stiles replies, voice unsure but still determined. He rubs the back of his neck, rounding the right side of the large table where two laptops sit side by side, a few wires coming out of them and Aiden's phone attached to one. "I got to run it on a program from like 1994, so it might take a little while. Don't worry, though. I made a few calls to Danny and he gave me some tips."

Derek nods, still twiddling with the knives.

A hand taps his shoulder. "Hey," Stiles says, grinning and motioning for Derek to follow him again. He puts down the knife, following Stiles to the firing range.

"Let's see if you're as good as you used to be," Stiles suggests, grinning widely that makes him look both young and far too eager to be shooting guns.

"Fine," Derek replies, barely fighting off the smirk as he picks up a pair of red ear defenders and puts them on. "Don't get too butt hurt if I'm still better than you."

Stiles' grin widens impossibly before he picks up one of the many pistols sitting on the table. Derek does the same, checking the barrel to see if it's full before snapping it back in, drawing it back and lining up the shot. He pulls the trigger, the bullet firing and shooting directly in the centre of the target, the paper tearing and a small swirl of smoke floating off the tip of the gun.

They shoot until their barrels were empty and the targets are littered with holes.

"No one likes a show off," Stiles says when they took off their ear defenders. Derek shoots him a I-told-you-so look, and Stiles rolls his eyes. "All right, hot shot, try the 45."

He hands Derek the gun and put down a open box of bullets.

"So," Stiles starts, opening the barrel of his own pistol and beginning to fill it. "Let's say you manage to ice these two pricks without getting yourself killed. Then what? Do you think you can go back to your old life? You're kicking a hornet's nest here, pal. I mean who knows how many of them are gonna crawl out of there. The way I see it, you either got to kill them all or run."

"I'm not running," Derek replies, snapping the barrel back in place slightly aggressively. He lifrs the gun, aiming it at the target and looking through the scope with one eye, the other clamped shut.

"I know a guy who does papers," Stiles says.

Derek lowers the gun, glancing at the male next to him suspiciously. "What are you suggesting?"

"Some place a little more equatorial," Stiles shrugs.

"Nah, I'll worry about it at the time," Derek says, lifting the gun to aim it again, but Stiles cuts him off.

"Derek, you may not have that luxury. I'm just saying. . . if you have like life insurance for Cora to collect on. You know me. You disappear. . . I'll make damn sure they find your car with a burned body in it."

Derek shakes his head, knowing where Stiles is going with this. He doesn't need the other man to create an alibi for him, or cover his tracks and make him invisible. He knows Stiles can do it, but that doesn't mean he needs to this time. "I'm good, man. It's good. It's all good."

Stiles opens his mouth as if to say something when a quiet beep drifts in from the other room. Stiles' head snaps in the direction of the sound before he drops his gun down on the table and dashes into his office. "I think we got something."

Stiles picks up Aiden's phone off the desk, staring at it intensely with full concentration that he only has when holding a gun or working on research.

"What do you got?" Derek asks, not sure what to look for - Stiles is always better at this stuff.

"A broken burner with only one number on it," Stiles replies, handing Derek the phone and looking at something more closely on one of his laptops.

"Let's try it," Derek says, looking at the phone.

"This number could be Ethanor Matt Daehler," Stiles says, picking up a set of files that Derek soon notices are identical copies to the ones he'd been given. He should have known Stiles wasn't going to stay out of this.

"Put it on speaker," Stiles demands when Derek finished dialling the number.

It rang three times before it picked up.

"Zombie tattoo, how can I help?" A voice scratches through the speaker. Derek shoots Stiles a look, silently asking if he knew the place. Stiles' stiffened posture told him yes. "Hello?"

"Is Ethan there?"

"No, not now," the voice replies.

"When will he be back?" Derek asks.

"Not sure," they answered, trailing off. "He's freelance, so it's hard. . ."

"How 'bout Matt?"

"Who is this?"

Derek hangs up, hands shaking. So Matt does work there, and so does Ethan.

He meets Stiles' eyes, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Y'know, I've always wanted a tattoo," Derek says, and Stiles' blank expression turns into a smirk.


	3. these streets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action scenes are so hard to write sometimes. Forgive me if they suck!
> 
> Also, I wrote my first smut scene!

The following night after the phone call, Derek climbs into the car and begins to drive towards the Alpha Tattoo Parlour on the outskirts of Beacon Hills.

He grabs his phone from the dashboard, tapping in the numbers and letting it ring.

"I'm on my way, where are you?" He says as soon as it answers.

"Gonna have to meet you there. Alarm just tripped at the shop," Stiles replies, sounding exasperated.

Derek sighs. "Alright. Text me when you're on your way."

"Will do," Stiles replies, and then the call cuts out in time for Derek to round the corner and the tattoo parlour comes into sight.

Derek parks up a few shops down and climbs out. As he gets closer to the tattoo parlour, he see's a group of people walk out. He enters before the door shuts.

There's a single guy at the desk, flipping through some paper. His head is downcast, but Derek instantly recognises him from one of Stiles' files.

"Too late for a tat?" Derek asks, breaking the silence and motioning to the closing door.

The guy looks up. "Nope, I can get you in tonight man," Ennis replies, shaking his head and reaching for a large open book on the counter. "What are you looking to do?"

Derek approaches the desk. "Is Ethan around?"

"He is not around," Ennis says, eyes downcast on the sheets that look like invoices and schedules.

"Too bad," Derek muses. "I heard he was the best."

"Ethan is good," Ennis considers, looking up and smirking slightly. "But I'm a little better."

"Yeah?"

Ennis nods. "Yeah."

"Cool," Derek grins, pulling out a sheet for his tattoo design and placing it on the desk.

Ennis unfolds it, looking at the sheet with a blank expression. His eyebrows rise an inch, eyes scanning over the rough drawing Derek had sketched up. "Nice," he says, putting the sheet down. "What is it?"

"A little family symbol," Derek replies, sitting down in one of the chairs along the wall. Ennis busied himself in transferring the drawing to the tracing paper.

"So, you know Ethan?" Ennis asks.

"Not really," Derek replies. "My sister does though. She. . . we've had a little falling out over some of her friends."

"One of them Ethan?"

"Yeah,"

Ennis nods, not looking up from the transfer.

"And another guy," Derek adds. "Matt or something. Eh, I don't know. I'm probably too overprotective, but she's my little sister, y'know? Maybe if I met them or spent some time with them, maybe I'd feel differently. But, well, we've had a falling out over that."

Ennis nods, and Derek has to fight off the smirk at the confused expression on the tattooist's face. This was the plan; to pretend Cora knew Ethan and Charlie, to draw Ennis into suspicion and to call Ethan in.

*****

Stiles unlocks the door to his parlour, inching the door open a crack. The alarm is ringing, loud and blaring. Inside, the room was dark, unlit and unseeable. He steps in, opening the door fully before shutting it behind him. He shuts off the alarm and flicks on the main lights from the switch, the room bursting into vision.

It's trashed. Chairs are slung on the floor, the equipment and tools on the sides have been swiped on the floor. Paper was abandoned on the floor, files opened and flung across the wooden floor boards.

Stiles freezes when he sees in the only upright chair; a body. He's sitting up, back to Stiles.

"You know, a locked door usually means we're closed," Stiles says, inching forward slowly.

The chair spins, and Matt Daehler stands up. He points a pistol, face tight with a furrowed glare. "And this gun means you're open," he snarls.

Two other figures step out of the shadows. Large, muscled thugs that Stiles recognises from various police files he's hacked into in the past. Each of them hold weapons; one with a knife and the other with Stiles' baseball bat grasped loosely in his fingers.

Stiles freezes, asserting the situation. He barely holds back the urge to snatch the bat out of the guys hands because, _hello! Invasion of personal belongings!_

"Step down here, Princess," Matt says, jerking his head to the side beside him. Stiles cautiously steps forward, crossing the room slowly. "Come on down," Matt eggs on, eyes never leaving Stiles as he moves. "Nice spot you got here, man."

"Yeah, it was," Stiles replies, coming to a stop.

"We just want to ask you a few questions," Matt says.

"Fire away," Stiles says, and then he grins, holding up his hands. "Well, not literally."

Matt huffs a sarcastic laugh, evidently unamused. "Funny guy, huh?" He says, looking to his pals. His eyes snap back to Stiles, cold and hard. His gun is still pointed directly at him, the barrel unwavering. "So, you and your friend are messing with my boys," he pulls out a grainy photo, of which Stiles instantly recognises as a photo taken of him and Derek, dumping Aiden's body into the dustbin those few nights ago. "Does that freshen your memory?"

Stiles doesn't do anything. He keeps his expression stoney and still, unreadable.

"Who is that?" Matt says, more aggressively. Stiles' silence reigns, and Matt's face becomes more red with frustration. He shakes the photo, snarling as he shouts, "Look at the fucking picture. Who is that? I need a name."

Stiles refrains from rolling his eyes at the quickly rising anger. Matt has always been one for short-tempered.

"That is a really nice pistol. What is that, a revolver?" Stiles babbles. "Fancy, dude."

Matt's lips twist up, eyes hard and staring. He looks so red, like he's about to physically combust with frustration.  "I need a name," he repeats.

"Alright," Stiles sighs. "Do you want me to look off that thing and try to—"

Stiles cuts himself off abruptly, swiping his hand out to catch the end of the pistol and aim it upwards moments before Matt pulls the trigger. It fires twice, both bullets embedding themselves in the ceiling. Stiles smashes the pistol into Matt's nose, knocking him backwards.

The bat swings past his face and Stiles dodges it just in time, kicking the attacker square in the stomach. He falls back with a grunt and Stiles turns to the other guy, moving in a nanosecond.

The guy swings the knife but Stiles leans just enough to grab the arm holding the knife by the forearm. He grabs the other shoulder, bending the knife arm backwards so far the bone snaps with horrific crack. Stiles grabs the knife out of the broken hand, using it to repeatedly stab the man in the back. He lets go, swinging his arm around to stab the man twice in the chest, letting him fall behind him.

Stiles' eyes catch movement on the floor and he see's Matt, still laying on his front, reach for the gun laying a meter away from him. Stiles slams his foot down on the gun, stopping Matt from moving it before he smashes his knee into the side of his face. Matt sprawls on the floor with a pathetic cry. Stiles turns to see the guy who's hand he broke and stabbed still standing, so with minimal effort, he juts his leg back and kicks him square in the chest, knocking him down for good.

Stiles turns to the last guy, clambering to his feet with the bat in his hands. His eyes are hungry and dangerous, but Stiles is ready, bouncing in place. He dodges the first swing at his chest, and then the second. He swings again, lower this time, and Stiles puts up his knee to shield the blow.

The bat snaps over his knee with a sharp crack.

Pain blossoms in his leg, spreading like wildfire and turning his vision white for a moment.

But the opportunity is there, Stiles is close enough now that he grabs the unarmed man by the collar, stabbing his knife into the guys chest.

"That," _stab!_ "really," _stab!_ "hurt," _stab!_ "my," _stab!_ "leg!" Stiles shouts in-between stabs to the guys chest. He drops the guy to the floor, his body limp and heavy like a sack of potatoes.

Stiles jumps around with his throbbing leg elevated in the air, hissing and grunting because— fuck! That really fucking hurt!

He turns to see Matt running out of the shop, the door swinging closed behind him.

"Oh, you son of a bitch!" Stiles mutters to himself. After a moment, he takes a deep breath and reaches down, grabbing the bastard by the collar and heaving him up. "All right, let's go."

*****

Derek was laying on his front on the leather bench. The needle buzzed between his shoulder blades, leaving a tingling sting behind as the tattoo sinked into place, ink staining his skin. 

"Hey, Ethan," Ennis suddenly says, and Derek refuses to stiffen at the words. Ethan was here. "We were just talking about you."

"Oh yeah?" Ethan replies. Derek hears the familiar smack of a pair of rubber gloves being put on.

"Yeah," Ennis answers. "But I don't want to get involved in anybody's family business."

"Well, who could blame you?" Ethan says.

Derek feels oddly vulnerable laying on his front, back exposed to the two above him. He feels panicked and cornered, endangered and unarmed. This wasn't good.

"Right," Ennis replies. The buzzing of the needle stops and Ennis leans down so his mouth is inches from Derek's face. "Well, this is the guy you originally wanted, so you mind if he finishes up here?"

"Sure," Derek answers. He's as stiff as a board on the leather bench, hands clasping the head rest so tight his knuckles bleed white.

"That's some heavy shit, man," Ethan says, taking the seat Ennis was in as the other man leaves through the back room. "What is it, celtic?"

"Yeah," Derek replies. "Spiral triskele. It's been my family for years."

He was getting the triskelion tattooed between his shoulder blades, something he'd actually been wanting to do for a long time. Now seemed like the perfect opportunity, and more or less the most ironic time while he's on a justice hunt for another fallen family member.

"So, what's this Ennis is talking about?" Ethan starts. "Family business?"

"Yeah. My younger sister, she. . .she told me you were the best ink man in town," Derek replies.

"Smart girl," Ethan muses. "What did you say her name was again?"

"Cora," Derek answers. "She told me you did this really cool pack tattoo on her friend. I think his name was Matt or something."

"Matt?"

"Yeah,"

"Maybe," Ethan hums, but Derek can see through the veil. He knows he's got Ethan paranoid, knows he's got him thinking. Some deeper research last night had revealed them to Matt Daehlers back tattoo: a pack symbol. "A lot of fools come through here, man. I can't remember all of them."

"Hmm," Derek murmurs.

He feels Ethan stop the buzzing off the machine. "Not bad," he says.

Derek begins to get up, but a hand presses quickly into his shoulder, halting his movement.

"Don't move," Ethan says. "It's still wet."

Derek slumps back down. His back is tingling, but the thought vanishes as soon as something cold and metallic presses into the back of his head.

"Get up, asshole,"

Derek slowly climbs to his feet, his raised top falling gracefully down his back as he straightens up.

Ethan stands on the other side of the bench, a pistol raised and aiming directly at Derek as he moves.

Ethan's eyes narrow. "You," he whispers.

Derek doesn't waste a second. He smacks the gun away from his face, smashing his elbow into Ethan's nose. He lurches forward as Ethan swings back from the blow, grabbing the gun still clasped in his hands and snatching it away from him.

He grabs Ethan by the throat, plowing into him and pushing him backwards. Ethan yells as he goes, eyes wide until they smack into the desk. Ethan flops back, head hitting the wood painfully.

Ethan's hand hits him by surprise, smacking him directly across the face so hard Derek see's white. Derek stumbles off him, and quickly blocks Ethan's oncoming punch. He hits back, hearing Ethan grunt and positioning them so Ethan is tucked under his arm before he launches him over the top of the desk.

Ethan crashes sharply on the floor on the other side with a loud groan. Derek rounds the desk just as Ethan grabs a knife from his pocket, climbing to his feet wearily.

Ethan swings, the knife slicing through the air. The blade finally cuts Derek, slicing through the meaty muscle of his forearm. He grunts, turning and leaning over the desk. His eyes catch the sight of a pocket knife on the desk. He grabs it, turning in time to stop Ethan's swinging arm. He grabs the arm with the knife by the wrist, slicing his own blade though the flesh.

Ethan cries out, dropping the knife as it clatters to the ground.

Derek spins Ethan around, his back pressed to Derek's chest as he poises the blade across his throat.

"Where's Matt?" Derek asks.

Ethan struggles in his grip, crying out. "I don't know!"

Derek tightens his grip, knife piercing the skin of Ethan's neck.

"Take his stash!" Ethan offers in a strained shriek. "It's in the back!"

"Where is he?" Derek asks again, tone borderline a snarl.

Ethan grunts again, and then in a blink of an eye, he's grabbing Derek's wrist and running the knife across his throat, slicing it.

He drops the floor and Derek sighs. He bends down, retrieving Ethan's phone out of his pocket. Derek puts it in his jean pocket before grabbing Ethan by the legs and dragging his limp form around to the back of the desk, hidden from nosy eyes.

Derek spots a black duffel bag under the counter, standing out amongst the paper and boxes. He grabs it, slinging it on the floor and unzipping it hastily. Inside is large wrapped bags of weed and clubs of dollars; Matt's stash.

Derek zips it back up moments before his phone rings. He throws the bag over his shoulder before answering the call.

"Derek, are you alright?" Stiles asks immediately.

"Something's wrong," Derek replies, looking down at Ethan's lifeless form. "They know something."

"I know," Stiles replies. "Three assholes just redecorated the barbershop. Meet me at Teto's. We have garbage to dispose of."

Derek knows exactly what that means. He hangs up, checking the back rooms to make sure they're empty before he grabs Ethan and sling his heavy, lax body over his shoulder.

He dumps Ethan in the boot of his car before climbing in and driving off.

*****

Stiles is standing by his Jeep when Derek arrives at Teto's junk yard on the boarder of town.

"Come on," Stiles says as soon as Derek's out. "We've got a car waiting."

Derek nods, opening the boot and heaving Ethan out. He carries the dead body over to the car Stiles has arranged for them: a beaten up label-less car - most likely a fraud or stolen. Either way, Stiles has managed to pay off Boyd, the nighttime worker, to use it to dispose of their nights work.

Derek places Ethan in the backseat along side two other bodies. Derek instantly realises they are Stiles' doing.

He steps back, closing the door and standing beside Stiles.

Moments later, a large, metal claw slams down, crushing the roof. The glass smashes, metal crinkling and crunching under the heavy weight. It's gripped, slicing through the material of the car before lifting it up.

Stiles waves Boyd a thumbs up before they walk away.

"What happened?" Derek asks, noticing the limp in Stiles' walk.

"Those assholes who wanted to dance with me, they were looking for you," Stiles explains.

Derek nods. "Matt Daehler."

"He was one of them. The only bastard who got away," Stiles says. 

They head to Derek's and he opens the boot, pulling Matt's bag into view as he unzips it. "This is his."

"Holy shit," Stiles whistles. "He's gonna miss that."

"Exactly," Derek says. "It will bring him right to us."

Stiles nods as Derek zips it back up, shutting the trunk of his car. "All right, we can set up a stink for tomorrow night."

"Where are you staying tonight?" 

"Gonna find a motel somewhere," Stiles replies. "They know where I live now. It's not safe."

Derek nods. There's a deep rumbling in his chest that hates the idea of Stiles staying somewhere alone, vulnerable - despite Stiles having proved he is far from weak.

"Do you. . ." Derek starts, shifting from foot to foot. "Do you want me to stay with you?"

Stiles looks like he's fighting a grin. "Aw, does sweet, big-bear-Derek not want to be alone?"

Derek shoots him an unamused glare. "No. I just didn't know if you wanted some company."

"You'd rather sleep in some shitty, lumpy motel bed instead of your own to keep my company?" Stiles snorts.

Derek stares at him blankly, and Stiles sends him a shit-eating grin.

"Don't worry, I know you've been sleeping in your car for the last two nights. A motel bed must be a treat for you," Stiles says, turning around and walking back to his car.

Derek blinks. "Wait. What? How did you. . ."

Derek wasn't aware he was so painfully obvious.

"I know what grief does to someone, Derek," Stiles says, still walking back to his Jeep. "You look like you haven't had a good night sleep in ages and I saw you sleeping in it this morning when I was getting milk."

Derek blinks again, dumbstruck.

Stiles spins around when he reaches his car, smirking and opening the door. "Follow me," he calls, before he climbs in.

*****

Derek follows Stiles out to a motel in the quiet quarters of town, where the elderly and quiet live. While Stiles is getting a room, Derek sits in his car, hand on his forearm where it's still sluggishly bleeding from Ethan's knife.

Stiles knocks abruptly on the window with his knuckles, motioning for Derek to get out.

"Looks like we're the only residents in this joint," Stiles says, grabbing a duffel bag of over-night stuff that Derek knows he keeps in his Jeep all the time - something they'd done since they started this ghost life.

"Yay," Derek says, sarcastically. He grabs his own bag and Matt's stash one. 

They clamber up the stairs to the assigned room and Derek goes straight to the bathroom after dumping his bags down on the floor beside the bed.

In the bathroom, he runs the sink with warm water, grabbing a white washcloth from the towel rack and pressing it to the knife wound. It's beginning to sting now.

"Need any help?" Stiles asks, and Derek looks over his shoulder to see him standing at the door.

Derek sighs. "If you don't mind. My med-kit's in—"

"I know," Stiles interrupts, disappearing from the door way for few moments. Derek turns back to the sink, and turns off the faucet.

Stiles enters the bathroom, grabbing Derek by the shoulder. "Sit," he says, pushing Derek down onto the toilet.

Derek sits, like a scolded child, and Stiles places down the med-kit and a bottle of whiskey. He kneels down and takes the washcloth from Derek's hands, revealing the wound into view. 

Derek tries not to stare at Stiles too closely as he dips the washcloth into the lukewarm water, wringing the cloth out and wiping it gentle over the slice in Derek's skin. Derek watches, eyeing his long, thin fingers, his veined hands, nibble wrists. His eyes trail up the lithe muscles on his arms, his structured shoulders to his face with his long eyelashes and high cheekbones. 

Stiles cleans the cut quickly, digging through the medical kit to pull out a bottle of saltwater.

Derek groans when Stiles pours some onto a medical pad, and Stiles wordlessly hands him the bottle of whiskey. He unscrews the cap, gulping it down greedily. It burns and when he scrunches up his face in a grimace, he hears Stiles huff a laugh.

"Never have been a rum-lover, have you?" Stiles asks, looking up for a moment, his face split with a lop-sided smirk. Derek has the sudden urge to kiss the smirk off his face.

Derek rolls his eyes and huffs, but quickly drinks another few gulps when Stiles begins to sew his skin together.

Before he knows it, Stiles says, "Done. All done."

"Finally," Derek grumbles, and Stiles snorts. He's still on his knees, packing away the kit back into Derek's bag before scrubbing the cloth in the sink, trying in a futile attempt to get the blood out. He gives up and drains the sink, slumping back down on his knees and snatching the bottle of whiskey out of Derek's hand.

"Yes, you can have some," Derek drawls sarcastically.

Stiles swallows large gulps. "It's my whiskey, asshole."

Derek rolls his eyes again. His heart hammers in his chest as he stares down at Stiles, on his knees and lips wrapped around the bottle rim. His throat moves as he swallows, long neck white and pale. 

Stiles finishes drinking, recapping the bottle and licking his lips. Derek watches the motion, stomach spinning.

Derek must have radiated something, because a moment later, Stiles looks up, concern clear in his big, chestnut brown eyes.

"What's wrong?" Stiles says quietly.

Derek can't stop himself. A moment later, he's lurching forward, smashing his lips against Stiles'. It takes him a second to realise what he's doing, and he goes to pull away when two cold hands cup his cheeks, deepening the kiss. Stiles is kissing back. Stiles, _is kissing back!_

Derek feels waves of arousal run down his spine like a ball. The kiss is hot and rushed and passionate, full of lust and starvation. The kiss is dizzying and captivating, consuming Derek like a giant wave.

Stiles inches up slowly, pressing his chest flush against Derek's as he slides his tongue over Derek's bottom lip. Derek opens his mouth with a groan, tasting the sweet and sharp taste of whiskey on Stiles' tongue.

Derek can't even fantom with how much he's been craving this. Seeing Stiles so much recently, working with him like they used to has had Derek dragging his feet in the ground. Stiles has been there, the whole time, so close yet so far out of reach. He's been swallowing his feelings down, pretending they weren't there. He's ignored them, convinced Stiles didn't feel the same.

Derek can't take it anymore. He grabs Stiles by his waist standing up and pulling Stiles with him, their mouths never disconnecting. He picks Stiles up, the other mans legs automatically wrapping around Derek's waist, pressing his clothed erection into the base of Derek's torso.

Derek feels like he's drowning with arousal as he carries them into the bedroom and dropping them down onto the bed. He hovers his body above Stiles', kissing him like its an addiction as Stiles' hands holding him by his cheeks, cold fingers stroking down his neck and jawline.

"Wait," Stiles gasps, ripping his mouth from Derek's. "Tell me this isn't some fling— tell me this is real."

"It's real, Stiles," Derek replies.

"No— like, this isn't a one night thing? Is it?" Stiles asks.

Derek looks at him blankly. "No, Stiles. Now stop ruining the mood."

Stiles raises an eyebrow at him before he smashes their lips together again. Fire burns down Derek's spine like a ball rolling, he feels hot and tight, trousers uncomfortable.

Derek breaks away from Stiles' mouth, trailing peppered kisses down the long line of his neck, nipping and sucking at the skin. He focuses on the sensitive stretched over Stiles' collar bone, forming an impressive mark into the white, milky surface.

Stiles gasps, throwing his head back, exposing the long, white strip of his throat. Derek licks a long line back up, kissing Stiles' jawline as he hovers above Stiles' smaller body. Stiles rolls his hips up, grinding his erection against Derek's teasingly.

Derek grunts at the friction, breaking away from Stiles' jaw with a shuddering breath.

"Too many clothes," Stiles says, hands shakily tugging at Derek's t-shirt. "This, get it off!"

Derek shuffles back so he can sit up enough to rip his shirt over his head. Stiles' hands are on him immediately, cold hands roaming over his chest and stomach, adding a chill to his skin. Leaning up, Stiles presses his mouth over Derek's chest, breath ghosting as he grazes over his nipple. Derek's breath hitches, getting stuck in his throat.

"Jesus," Stiles whispers as Derek tightens his grip on his waist.

It's been an embarrassingly long time since Derek has gotten laid, so between Stiles rolling against him and his hot breath over Derek's chest, Derek is about to loose all control he's ever had. He pulls back, out of Stiles' reach and tugs the hem of Stiles' shirt. Stiles barely has a moment to notice before Derek it wrenching it over his head, exposing his skin.

Stiles is. . . Derek's mind can't even supply any other word than _beautiful_. His skin is a creamy white, smooth and silky. He has scars,  dotted on his chest like his moles and beauty marks. His torso is shadowed with light muscle, a dark, light fuzz of hair leading down past his trouser line.

Derek licks his lips, mouth salivating and throat tight. His eyes scan over every inch and space of Stiles' body, laid out and presented for him. 

Stiles blushes beneath him, looking up at Derek with wide blown brown eyes. Derek's hands trail down Stiles' sides, touch light and teasing. Stiles shivers underneath him, gasping when Derek brushes the pad of his thumb over the nub of Stiles' nipple.

"Sensitive?" Derek muses, grinning.

"Fuck you," Stiles gasps, withering under Derek. He grinds up again, restless.

"Next time," Derek whispers, fingers playing with Stiles' waistband of his jeans.

Stiles grunts, huffing a breath. "Come on, Derek."

"Patience," Derek smirks, lifting Stiles' hips and pulling his jeans and boxers down in one. Stiles dick hits his stomach with a wet noise, making Derek bite back a moan at the light.

"At some point, we're going to do this again," Derek says, inching back so he can run his tongue along the defined 'v' of Stiles' hips. "And when we do, we're going to take it slow. I'll take you apart, piece by piece."

"Derek," Stiles moans, rutting his hips up again.

"Next time, I'm going to make you forget everything," Derek whispers, voice low and gravely. "But right now, I need to get inside you."

Stiles lets out the longest, most obscene moan, borderline a whine, when Derek takes his cock in his hand. He jacks him slowly, stroking and teasing his slit with the warm pad of his thumb.

Stiles writhers and trembles underneath him, head thrown back into the pillows. His breath is strained and hitching, coming out in gasps and huffs. 

He looks up suddenly, eyes catching Derek like a hungry predator. "This isn't fair," he breaths. "You. . . you need to be naked too."

Derek raises an eyebrow.

"Do you want me to stop?"

Stiles chokes a breath as Derek's strokes slow down. "I want to see you," Stiles practically whines, voice high and needy.

Derek smiles, letting go of Stiles to move back. Stiles sits up like a shot, his long fingers finding the button to Derek's jeans. He slides them down Derek's hips, along with his boxer briefs. Stiles sucks in a breath at the sight, eyes bulging.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You're perfect."

Derek rolls his eyes, feeling his cheeks burn with blush. He steps out of his pants, pressing a hand to Stiles' chest and pushing him back on the bed. He crawls up the bed, inch by inch, like a wave rolling over the shore. Stiles' dick was pressing against his stomach, red and strained. Derek reaches down, licking a long stripe up the shaft and twirling his tongue over the head.

Stiles curses under his breath, dropping down on the bed, spread out and bucking up his hips.

Derek takes Stiles in whole, and the sounds coming out of Stiles' mouth are absolutely obscene; long, stretched out moans and choked whimpers. Derek glances up, finding Stiles staring down at him, face flushed and eyes blissed. That's it, he needs to be in Stiles right now.

Stiles makes a protesting noise when Derek pulls off, whining high pitched. Derek shushes him, his large palm rubbing up Stiles' stomach as he reaches over the bed and plucks the bottle of lube out of his duffle bag. Stiles' eyes widen at the sight.

Derek generously coats his fingers before he circles Stiles' hole slowly, slicking him up. He takes Stiles in his mouth again, sliding a finger in. Stiles is tight and hot, moaning as Derek opens him up slowly.

He slids a second finger in, Stiles' hole clinging to his thick digits greedily.

"Fuck, Derek!" Stiles cries, sounding like the words were punched out of him.

Derek hollows out his cheeks around Stiles' cock before sucking off with a audibly sound.

"Soon," he promises. He works his fingers quickly, scissoring them to stretch Stiles as quick as possible. It only takes a couple of minutes before Derek's got a third finger in, working and thrusting his digits into Stiles' hole in time with Stiles' deep groans.

"Fuck," Stiles curses. "Get inside me. I'm ready, Derek. Just— please! Derek—" Stiles' incoherent begs and pleas cut off when Derek pulls his fingers free and grabs a condom from the bag, ripping it open and sliding it on. 

"Shh, I got you," Derek whispers, lining himself up, dick nudging Stiles' hole. He pushes forward an inch, the ring of muscle stretching around his head. He stares at it for moment, listening to Stiles moan for more and try to move himself down. Derek stills him with strong hands on his waist before he slides in completely, his dick disappearing inside Stiles.

Stiles' hole is hot and tight around Derek. He stills for a moment, drinking in the moment of complete bliss.

"Derek," Stiles growls beneath him. " _Move_."

Derek says nothing, just takes one look at Stiles face before he pulls back and slams in, Stiles screaming in pleasure underneath him. Stiles switches from meeting Derek's deep and quick thrusts and going along for the ride as Derek slams into him, moaning and grunting. Derek finds Stiles impossibly beautiful beneath him, neck and collarbones purple with love-bites, eyes closed and face lax with bliss. 

Derek grips Stiles' hips so hard as he thrusts into him that he won't be surprised if Stiles has finger shaped bruises on his skin in the morning. The sight of Stiles spread out beneath him makes Derek want more, _need_ more. He pushes Stiles' legs open more and presses his body flush against Stiles' sucking on his neck again, attacking the hickey he'd started earlier.

"Derek," Stiles moans. "Derek, fuck— I'm gonna come. I need—. . ."

"Stiles," Derek replies, sliding a hand between their stomachs and taking Stiles' leaking dick between his fingers, stroking the slick member. He tilts Stiles' hips up, nailing his prostate and thrusting faster. "I've got you," he whispers over Stiles' whimpers, dragging his teeth against the shell of his ear. "Come, Stiles. Come for me."

Stiles screams as he comes, nails scratching down the skin of Derek's back. Stiles' hole clenches and spasms around Derek's dick, forcing Derek to come as well. His orgasm is punched out of him and he stills, pulsing inside Stiles. Stiles moans out Derek's name, his spilling cock between them, coating their stomachs. 

Panting, Derek rests his forehead against Stiles', almost collapsing on top of the younger male. Stiles wraps his arms loosely around Derek's shoulders, hugging the other man into him. Derek runs his hands up and down Stiles' flank soothingly, humming softly when Stiles runs a hand slowly through the sweaty strands of his hair on the back of his head.

Derek eases out of Stiles with a low groan and rolls to the side. He tangles his feet with Stiles, taking off the used condom and tossing it in the trash can by the bedside cabinet. He turns back to Stiles, who's still laid pliantly on his back, blinking his glassy eyes sluggishly. Cooling come still coats Stiles' stomach, so Derek kisses Stiles softly before rolling out of the bed.

Stiles raises an eyebrow at him, but Derek can't help but smile at the small pout Stiles expresses. He leans down, pressing a kiss to Stiles' sweaty forehead.

"Just getting a wash cloth," Derek says, and Stiles relaxes back into the sheets.

Stiles nods, closing his eyes. "Continue."

Derek smiles as he heads into the bathroom, grabbing a fresh rag and going back into the bedroom. He wipes Stiles down, gentle running the cloth over his skin and between his cheeks. He cleans himself before tossing the rag in the sink and climbing back into the bed.

"We shouldn't have done that," Stiles says, suddenly.

Derek stiffens, heart hammering and regret pooling in his gut like cold icicles.

"What? Why?"

"Doesn't it seem a little inappropriate? To have sex while we're trying to get vengeance for your dead sister?"

"I told you, it's not vengeance, it's _justice_ ," Derek stresses. "Fuck, you scared me for a moment then."

Stiles snorts. "What? How?"

"I thought you were going to say it was a mistake," Derek replies honestly.

He feels Stiles shift, and then he's leaning up on one elbow, looking down at Derek with open, raw eyes.

"Do you think it was a mistake?" Stiles asks. "Do you regret it now?"

"No," Derek answers hastily. "God, no, Stiles. I don't—. . . I was checking you didn't regret it."

Stiles lets out a heavy breath, lips turning up in a soft smile. He leans forward, lips connecting with Derek's in a gentle, soft kiss. He pulls away a moment later, breath ghosting over Derek's lips as he whispers, "Of course I don't regret it."

Derek grins. "Good," he says before he wraps his arms around Stiles' middle, flipping them over so his body is hovering over Stiles'. He smashes their mouths together in a kiss so hungry and passionate it's almost bruising.

The make-out station is hot and heated, but Derek knows Stiles is just as tired as he is so soon, the kisses die down, turning into lazy cuddling as Stiles lays half on Derek's chest, their legs tangled together at the bottom of the bed. Stiles hair, messy, unruly and standing up on end, tickles Derek's chin where his head is resting on Derek's collarbone. 

Derek doesn't know when Stiles falls asleep exactly, but before he realises it, he notices the change in Stiles' breathing; it's slower, deeper and ghosting over Derek's bare chest. Derek rubs his thumb over the skin on Stiles waist were his arm is wrapped around his smaller body.

He reaches down and pulls the covers over them, the action causing Stiles to shift and curl into him more.

Derek smiles, pressing a kiss to the top of Stiles' head before closing his eyes and laying back.


	4. two evils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally managed to finish this! it is rushed, i'm afraid, but i wanted to get it finished so i have one less story to worry about.
> 
> this is also the longest chapter i have ever written at a total of 14,000 words! (giving myself a massive pat on the back for that!) I didn't even realise it was going to be so long!
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy :)

Derek sits down on the church pew with a heavy stomach. He looks up at the cross at the front, at the statues and displays.

"I know I don't have the right to be here," he begins, eyes downcast and looking into his lap. The collar of his shirt and jacket feel tight, the air too hot and thick to breath. He urges himself to calm down. "Please, tell me when to stop."

 _"You made a big change for us a long time ago,"_ Laura's voice flashes in his mind from all those years ago when he locked away his ghost identity. _"You made a big change for me, Derek."_

Derek closes his eyes, swallowing back the thick emotion suffocating him. Laura's voice was like a broken record in his mind.

"May I join you?" Someone asks, and Derek looks up to see Alan Deaton sitting down a few spaces away from him, perched on the end seat of the pew. "Grief is a funny thing," he went on to say. "It can ruin a man, or make him stronger."

"Strange," Derek murmurs. "Right or wrong, I have purpose now."

"What purpose is that?" Deaton asks, and Derek closes his eyes.

*****

Cora unlocks the door to Laura's home. It smells stale and cold, a fine layer of dust already surfacing upon her belongings. It hits Cora harder than she expects, freezing in the door way.

"Are you okay?" Isaac asks, standing behind her. A hand lays softly on her hip, comforting and grounding. "We don't have to do this today, if you're not ready. We can come back—"

"No," Cora says quickly. "We need to do it. It's not fair to put Derek through this."

"Okay," Isaac replies. "Did Derek say everything was already boxed, or. . .?"

"I don't think he's even been here," Cora replies. "There's boxes in the garage, if you want to get them, I'll get started on sorting."

"Okay," Isaac nods, walking around her to head into the garage.

Cora takes a deep breath before getting to work.

*****

_What purpose is that?_ Deaton's words ring in his mind.

His purpose.

He can't say it out loud. He can't admit to it, not here.

He shifts so he's facing the tanned man for clearly. "May I ask you a question, Deaton?"

"Of course,"

He licks his lips, throat dry. "There are. . . there are things I've done. Many years ago. . ."

"What are you saying, Derek?"

His lungs constrict as the words die in his throat.

"Is it possible that Laura was killed because of the things I did?" He chokes out, words barely a whisper. "Is my soul is damned. Have all of my mistakes caught up to me? Is it. . . is it my fault again?"

Deaton looks at him with a calculating look, not scrutinising, but clear and wondering. Something he hasn't done towards Derek in a long time.

"I was never your fault before, Derek," he says, and Derek lets out a frustrated breath through his nose. "And it's not your fault now. Laura died because it was her time to go."

"But it's not fair," Derek snaps. "She didn't deserve it. She didn't deserve to die."

"Very little people do," Deaton replies, sounding sad and sympathetic.

Derek squeezes his eyes shut, fists clenched against his thighs, small nails digging painfully into the flesh of his palms. He anchors himself, keeping the shameful tears at bay. It was too late to cry.

"You see this praying card?" Deaton begins, and Derek opens his eyes. A hand is extended towards him, a small, hand-sized card in handed out. He takes it, feeling the dusty, wrinkly material underneath his calloused fingers. "The man crucified beside him is known by few. A thief, a corrupt man of the lowest order. And yet moments before his death, Jesus told him: 'Before dawn, we will dwell together in my father's house.'"

"I'm. . ." Derek shakes his head, handing the card back. "I don't— I don't understand."

"It's simple," Deaton says, and Derek barely contains his scoff. Nothing is simple anymore. "Whatever your sins are, they've already been forgiven. If you have a heavy heart, we have the sacrament of confession. Vows of silence."

Vows of silence.

The words sit on Derek's chest like a heavy pressure. Heavy heart.

Deaton stands, book and card clutched to his chest as he shuffles out of the pew, leaving Derek alone.

After a long moment, Derek shifts on the seat. He doesn't know why he's doing this, but something inside him wills him to. He's not religious, never has been and never imagined he'd ever step foot inside a church for something this bold. But he needs to do this, he needs to get it out.

For Laura.

"Bless me, father, for I have sinned," he begins, head bowed and fingers cross linked over the back of the pew in front of him. He takes a shuddering breath. "It's been many years since my last confession. And these are my. . . these are my sins," he swallows, throat dry and tight. "I've killed many men. Some for a reason, some not."

*****

Cora exits the house, shutting the door firmly behind her. She locks it, pocketing the key and making her way to the SUV. Isaac is by the trunk, piling the last of the boxed inside.

"Hey, what took you so long?" Isaac asks. "You okay?"

"No, I'm not," Cora admits. She feels shaken after being inside the house for so long. Seeing Laura's belongings inside boxes has made her stomach twist and turn, rolling in waves of grief and nausea.

"We'll talk about it on the way. I'm running late," Isaac replies, flashing her an apologetic smile as he heaves the last box in the back.

"Yeah," Cora sighs. "Sure."

They both round the car, Cora climbing in the passenger seat. She slouches against the rich cushioned chair, energy drained emotionally. It's been far from comforting to see Laura's belongings packed into boxes as if she never existed. It's days like these that Cora needs a hug from her mother, but wishes like that haven't been possible for years.

She shuts off the thoughts off her mind as Isaac roars the car to life. Her eyes meet his over the jack shift, and he sends her a comforting smile. He understands grief, he can relate. That's probably why Cora loves him so much.

They roll in reverse, and they're barely off the drive before a car is zooming past, so fast Cora barely registers it happening. The back window smashes, sudden and sharp. Cora screams, Isaac shouts next to the her and the car jerks, hurtling into a nearby tree.

*****

Derek had only just turned the corner, having left the church minutes before, his mind still focused on the words he pleaded to the heavens above him, when his heart drops.

The SUV is nose first into a tree, front crumpled and metal wrinkled. Smoke floats out from the bent lip of the front of the car, the back window missing and shards of glass on the floor around it.

A car speeds off, the sounds of gun shots still ringing through the street.

Derek slams his foot down, driving hazardously towards Laura's house and their shared car.

He jumps out moments after the car stops, not even bothering to turn off the engine. His gun is in his hand, ready to attack. He quickly realises the threat is gone, disappearing down the street.

His focus re-applies to Cora, who stumbles out of the car on shaky legs.

"Cora!" He shouts, tucking the pistol in the belt of his pants. He runs towards the car, hands coming up to comfort his shaken sister. "What happened?"

"Oh, God," Cora chokes, eyes wide and skin white.

"Are you hurt?" Derek presses, eyes racking over his sisters form. He can't see anything, but that doesn't mean—

"He shot Isaac!" Cora replies. "Oh shit, Isaac—"

Derek is already rounding the SUV, swinging the drivers door open.

"Where?" Derek is already asking.

Isaac is stiff against the seat, back as straight as a board. He's still, fine tremors rippling through him. There's a growing red stain on his shoulder, seeping through his white shirt.

"S-shoulder," Isaac stutters, a groan grinding through his gritted teeth.

The moment Derek applies pressure on the wound, Isaac tilts forward, curling in on himself with a startled cry.

"Isaac!" Cora shrieks, standing at Derek's side.

"Take off your jacket," Derek orders, and Cora complies instantly. She strips the clothed zip-up hoodie she was wearing, handing it to Derek. He scrunches it up, pressing it against the bullet wound on Isaac's shoulder.

"It's all right," Isaac murmurs, but Derek ignores him.

"Hold it here," he tells Cora, stepping out of the way so she can step in. "Just hold it right there. Keep pressure on it."

"It's all right," Isaac says again.

"Shut up, Isaac!" Cora snaps, but it's more watery than heated. Derek eyes the glistening tear tracks down her cheeks as she holds the cloth against his shoulder.

"Did you see anything?" Derek asks.

"No," she shakes her head.

He glances down the street, the car long gone. He's surprised no one on the street has come out, considering shots have been fired.

"Anybody?" Derek continues to press. "A car? A coat?"

Cora shakes her head again, as if automatic, before turning to look at him with eyes cold and clear with realisation.

"They were after you, weren't they?" She asks. "I know what you're doing. I saw the gun, and the files in your apartment last night."

"You were in my apartment?" Derek asks, eyebrows pinching inwards.

"How else was I meant to get the keys?" Cora snaps. She shuts her eyes briefly, breathing harshly through her nose. Without opening her eyes, she asks, "You're doing it again, aren't you? You're going after them."

"Cora, please—" Derek tries, but Cora is having none of it.

"Who's next to get hurt? Huh?" She interrupts, eyes snapping open. She glares fully, dark eyes hard and cold and accusing. "Me?"

"No,"

 _"Scott?"_ Cora seethes, and Derek clenches his jaw at the mention of her son, and the idea of the small boy in a spec of danger.

"I promise nothing will ever happen to you or Scott," Derek replies.

Cora's lips are pressed in a thin line, eyes hard and narrowed. "It just did."

Derek swallows thickly. This wasn't meant to happen. They weren't meant to get hurt, no one was. This is a mission to take out the bad guys, not endanger more of his loved ones.

"Let's get him to the hospital," Derek says, nodding towards Isaac, who has slouched against the seat, entire shirt sticky with crimson red blood, eyes half lidded and breathing a pace too slow. "But just to be safe, I want you and Scott to get a hotel."

"What?" Cora exclaims. "They are not running me and my son out of our own home! Derek, whatever you're doing—"

Derek shakes his head. "Please, Cora. It's for your own safety,"

"I wouldn't need this for my own safety if you stopped," Cora retorts.

Derek doesn't reply, because deep down, he knows she's right.

*****

Derek is sitting at the desk in the barbershops basement, sorting through the phone he found in the bag he stole from the barbers. Stiles is standing behind him, filling the pistols with bullets.

"Okay," Derek begins. "I've got Matt's number."

"Alright," Stiles says behind him, sounding pleased. "Let's chitchat."

 ** _Missing a shipment?_** Derek sends.

The reply is almost instant.

**_Who is this?_ **

Derek shows Stiles over his shoulder, the younger male snorting.

He texts back:

**_Want your stash? Meet now._ **

_**Alone.** _

Matt takes longer to reply this time, as if getting angsty and nervous. Derek can imagine him sweating, flustered and scowling at his phone.

**_House of Seoul._ **

"Should we pick the place?" Derek asks.

"Nah. Let him," Stiles replies, looking at the text over Derek's shoulder. "It'll make him feel safe. Besides, I know that joint. It's got plenty of exits."

"You still go to clubs?"

"I'm not entirely sexually stunted, Derek," Stiles replies with a snort.

Derek looks at him over his shoulder, eyebrow raised and unimpressed.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Calm down, _dad_. I only go for the drink."

Derek shakes his head, typing back:

**_20 minutes._ **

"Let's go, Lassy," Stiles says, grabbing the duffel bag he'd been preparing.

"Remind me again why you keep up the dog jokes?"

"Because you look like an angry dog when I do," Stiles smiles.

*****

Stiles lists the exits and entrances on the way to the club, and they both agree it's best for Derek to sneak in around the back. There's a food option inside the club, so they know there's a kitchen around back which Derek can sneak through. Stiles will go around the front in the mean time, on a look out for Matt and directing him to the VIP booth.

Derek get's into the kitchen easily enough, seeming as it's empty and shut off. The club, when he reaches it, is alive and dark. Illuminating lights glare from the ceiling, shining on the barely-clothed girls and suited men who laugh too hard and have too much gel in their hair. Colours flash in all different directions, swaying bodies and clicking heels filling the view. It's hard to navigate himself, but Derek finds the VIP section in no time.

Stiles drops him a text, plain and simple:

**_Matt's in VIP._ **

When Derek gets there, there's a guard on stand. Behind him, there's a strip of fabric separating the club floor to the VIP via a set of stairs. Just his luck, the guard was being helpfully swooned by a group of girls with as much skin on show as a pole dancer. Derek slips behind them as they chat, black hood pulled up and guns hidden under his leather jacket.

He unclips the clasp keeping the fabric crossing over the entrance and takes the stairs two at a time.

When he walks in, the room is tense and stuffy. Red and green hue lights illuminate the room. There's a stretched bar by the door, cushioned seats and low tables dotted around the room.

Matt is sitting in the corner, looking at another guy a few seats beyond him. There's a confrontation between the two, glaring eyes and hard stares, Derek realises Matt most likely thinks that is the guy who's been texting him.

Derek pulls his hood down, revealing his face and moments later, Matt's eyes are drawn to him.

"Hey, you!" Someone shouts, and then a hand in grasping Derek's shoulder. "You can't come in here," he begins to say, but Derek stops him.

He grabs the guys forearm attached to the hand on his shoulder, twisting it around so the shoulder bends backwards. The guard cries out, Derek shifting him so he's standing in front of Derek.

Moments later, there's gunfire. Derek shields himself behind the struggling guard who sputters and jerks as bullets imbed in his chest. Derek begins to pull his pistol out from under his jacket, the guard dropping to the floor.

The man who'd fired the shots jerks suddenly, gun dropping as blood spurts out of the side of his neck. Derek knows what had happened; Stiles had shot him from his point at the bar. Derek can see Matt beginning to draw his own weapon, but Derek doesn't have time to think about that as other guards and gunmen aim at him.

He shoots a man in the corner who'd raised his gun at him. Everyone in the VIP were screaming, women and men running out of the section. He could hear screams in the club as well.

A bullet whizzed past his face and he turns to see Matt advancing, gun raises and bullets firing out of it with no avail. Derek crouches, shooting back.

Bullets fly in from outside the room, and Derek knows Stiles has his back again. Matt stops short, arms coming up to shield his face and head as the mystery bullets from Stiles' gun come flying in.

Matt is stumbling back to avoid the bullets and Derek edges forward, still shooting as Matt drops in the gap between the coffee table and the corner of the 'L' shaped sofa.

"Everybody stay down!" Derek warns to the remaining people in the VIP. He crosses the room, gun still raised as Stiles enters the room.

"You got three minutes," he says.

Matt is beginning to get up, so Derek kicks the coffee table with his foot, causing it to skid sudden and fast. It hits Matt in the face, making him grunt and fall back. The gun falls from his hands, blood pouring from his nose.

"Keep the stash, man! Keep everything!" Matt shouts, putting his hands up in futile surrender. His eyes flick between the gun aimed at him in Derek's hand and Derek's face, as if he's unsure where's best to look.

This is the moment, Derek realises, the moment he's been waiting for, planning for, wishing for. He has his sisters killer at his feet.

"I don't want it," Derek snaps.

"Well, what do you want?" Matt asks, frantic and scared shit-less.

"It wasn't an accident that I met you, was it?"

"If I till you, I'm dead," Matt replies. "I'm not fucking stupid."

"Who ordered you to kill my sister?"

"Come on, man," Matt replies, sounding close to begging. He pauses, eyes catching the gun again. He's breathing hard, voice ratting with fear. "It wasn't my decision."

"Make that one minute!" Stiles shouts by the door. Derek swallows thickly, knowing people are in the building.

He pulls the trigger, the bullet purposely landing inches from Matt's head, puncturing the leather sofa.

"Deucalion!" Matt cries, quivering and trembling on the floor. He looks impossibly weak, nothing compared to the rough mugger he had portrayed the first time they met. "It was Deucalion!"

"Deucalion?" Derek echoes. "Why? Why did he order you to kill my sister?"

"It's not my fault she's a nosy bitch!" Matt snarls, eyes burning wide.

"Derek, it's time," Stiles warns.

Derek sighs, taking a step back. He turns, raising his gun and firing a shot that he knows hit's Matt's forehead. He hears the drop of the thugs body before he's crossing the room and meeting Stiles by the door.

The club is in mayhem. The dim lights make it hard to see, the screaming makes it hard to hear and the running, frantic people make it hard to move. Derek has no worries though. They've made it out of harder situations before.

They get onto the club floor, and instantly they are pounced. A gunned man comes out of the shadows, advancing on Stiles who swiftly avoids the bullet flying at him, hitting the guy twice in the nose with the butt of his gun before Derek lands a bullet directly into his skull.

He rounds a corner and finds a guy beginning to raise his pistol, but Derek is faster. He raises and shoots, the guy dropping to the floor, dead body lost in the low light.

The club is filled with gun shots. Derek doesn't know how many he fires, but the people coming at him drop like flies. He pulls the trigger automatically, hitting his target with no fault. Stiles is a step in front of him, breaking a guys arm at the elbow before firing a shot. Derek dashes past, entering a long corridor to the exit with Stiles hot on his heels.

Guns sound behind him and Derek hears the startled, disguised sound of a pained grunt behind him before him and Stiles are ducking into small depressions in the hallway wall. Derek shoots down the first guy and Stiles does the second. His eyes meet Stiles for a second, and he can see the flashes on pain in his expression.

He's been shot, Derek realises.

"Come on!" Stiles shouts, and Derek knows he's right. Now is no time to stop.

They dash around the corner of the corridor and out the club exit.

*****

The bullet went clean through Stiles' shoulder. From past experience, Stiles assures Derek its a clean flesh wound - that he'd be able to feel if it was anything worse. Derek doesn't believe him, but he trusts Stiles' judgement.

When they get back to the hotel, Stiles is slumped in the passenger seat, arm tucked into his chest and breathing slightly stalled. He's pale, not drastically so, but more than normal. He winces when he shifts to get out of the car and Derek hurries to help him up the stairs to the second floor of hotel rooms.

The front and back of his t-shirt is stained with crimson blood when he strips his jacket, grimacing as he does. Derek tries not to panic at the sight, stomach sinking. It looks like someone has thrown a bottle of red wine over his shoulder.

"Can you grab the med kit for me, please?" Stiles asks.

Derek nods. "Go to the bathroom," he says. "I'll grab everything."

"Don't forget Jack," he mumbles as he stumbles into the en suite. Derek shakes his head, a smile threatening to stretch his lips.

Derek gets the first aid kit from the nights before when Derek had sliced his arm and the half empty of Jack Daniels still sitting on the cabinet at Stiles' bedside.

He finds Stiles sitting on the bath edge when he enters, head lowed and hands braced against the porcelain, knuckles as white as the bath. He looks up a moment, eyes glazed slightly.

"How are you feeling?" Derek asks, putting the med kit on the closed toilet seat and passing Stiles the bottle.

"Like I've been shot," Stiles snarks as a reply, opening the bottle and taking a large gulp. "But I've had worse."

Derek snorts, unpacking the med kit and getting what he needs. He's never been as good with this first-aid stuff as Stiles has been - which is strange considering Stiles' past hate for needles and blood. Whenever they got roughed up in the past days, it had always been Stiles to patch them up, whether it be a scrape or a large cut. Anything that didn't require a hospital, Stiles could fix up for them.

"Are you sure this doesn't need medical attention?" Derek asks again, stressing as he sterilises the needle and weaves a thread through it. His hands are shaking.

Stiles takes another gulp of whiskey, resting his head back. "I'm sure, Derek. I promise, it's fine. Just stitch me up."

"Okay," Derek says idly. "Can you take your top off, or do you need help?"

"Just rip it," Stiles murmurs. "It's an old one, I don't even—"

Stiles cuts himself short when Derek abruptly rips his shirt down from the collar in one tear. Stiles gapes, looking surprised as he stares down at his now bare chest. He looks back up at Derek.

"That was so hot," he says.

Derek smiles, a bubble of a laugh tickling the back of his throat. He thrives forward, leaning so his lips are inches from Stiles', their hot breaths mingling.

"Kiss me," Stiles whispers, a mix between a plea and a demand. Derek can't deny him.

He surges forward those last inches, connecting their lips like a set off firework. Stiles kisses back, lips sloppy but just as sweet, the sour taste of whiskey still fresh. Derek is breathless when Stiles pulls away, resting their foreheads together as he pants.

"I really love kissing you," he starts, swallowing audibly. "But could you stitch me up now? I think this would be much more satisfying if I wasn't bleeding."

Derek feels a spark of guilt, eyes snapping open as he withdraws. There's an apology on the tip of his tongue, but Stiles' hazy, relaxed smile causes the words to die on his lips.

"Don't looks so guilty," Stiles says. "Get this done and we can carrying on where we left off."

That's an idea Derek is not willing to decline. He grabs the needle and thread, pushing the remains of Stiles' torn tee off his shoulder. He sits next to the younger male, wounded shoulder closest to him.

"This is going to hurt," Derek warns.

"Why do you think I asked for the whiskey?" Stiles replies, lifting the bottle to his lips in example. "Just do it," he says after a large swallow of Jack. "Get it over and done with."

Derek breaths heavily through his nose before he begins. It's messy and difficult, Stiles' skin slick with blood and more still oozing out of the wound. He stitches the back up first, fingers covered in red, as if he dipped his hand in a bucket of red paint. Stiles winces and flinches as he does, but other than that, he stays silent. He sips the bottle every now and again, but says nothing.

When Derek moves around to do the front, he's not surprised when Stiles rests his forehead on Derek's shoulder. He stitches up the exit wound as fast as he can, cautious not to make a mess of the stitches as he goes. The wound is small, only from a bullet, but it's the struggle of closing up the wound without making it worse.

"Done," Derek says, at last. He drops the blood needle next to the box on the toilet seat and grabs the gauze. He barely moves, Stiles' weight pressed into him where he was slumped over, boneless.

"I hate stitches," Stiles moans, barely audible as it's muffled into Derek's shoulder blade.

"No one likes them," he replies, unravelling the bandage. "You need to sit up now though, almost finished."

Stiles groans but straightens none the less. "Can I shower first?"

Derek stops, thad made sense. "Yeah. Good idea," he says. "You sure you can stand?"

"I was shot in the shoulder, not the leg," Stiles replies, rolling his eyes.

"You still lost a lot of blood," Derek grunts in reply. Stiles stands up, managing to stay on his feet and but still wobbling. He sways and Derek grabs his shoulders, steadying him with a levelled glare that blatantly read I told you so.

Stiles rolls his eyes again. "Looks like you'll have to get in with me."

Derek hums. "Looks like it. Better make sure you don't pass out and brain yourself."

Stiles snorts, face breaking out into a smile.

He sits Stiles down on the edge of the toilet seat before leaning over and turning the shower head on. He adjusts the temperature so it's not too hot or cold. He turns around to find Stiles fumbling with the belt of his trousers and feels a pang of loving sympathy.

He crouches down, gently moving Stiles' clumsy hands out of the way before he does it himself.

"I can undress myself, Derek," he grumbles, flashing a half-hearted glare.

Derek just smiles, "I know you can. Maybe I wanted to undress you."

"Oh god," Stiles groans, eyes fluttering shut. "Please don't do that. I don't think I have enough energy to get hard today."

"We'll see about that," Derek whispers hotly. "Up," he says, pulling Stiles into a standing position. He strips the younger males clothes and then his own before helping Stiles under the spray, following him in straight after.

Stiles stands facing the spray, back against Derek's chest. Derek wets his hair before grabbing the free shampoo the motel supplied, squirting a generous amount into his palm. He rubs it into Stiles' hair, massaging his head he goes. Stiles lets out breathless moans as he rubs into his scalp, leaning back against Derek's chest.

"That feels so good," he sighs. Derek can't help but smile. Stiles is still a head smaller than him, body far more lean. He's strong, no doubt about that, but Stiles has always had less build than Derek. He likes it like that though.

"Close your eyes and tips your head back," Derek says, taking the shower head off he wall and directing it to spray on the back of Stiles' head. He washes out the shampoo from the locks that look almost black when they're wet. When Stiles' hair is clean, he leans forward to connect the shower head back onto the wall, subconsciously rubbing himself against Stiles.

The younger males breath hitches, and a moment later, he's slowly turning around. His eyes are dark with arousal, cheeks tinted a cherry pink. He looks so much better than half an hour before. He's still slightly pale, eyes darkened with tiredness and his shoulder is a mess, but it's clean and stitched and the sparking heat in Stiles' eyes is all Derek can seem to register.

Stiles' mouth is open a fraction and Derek can't keep his eyes from flicking down to the blow shaped lips, pink and wet. Stiles is the one to surge forward this lip, slotting their bodies together as he kisses Derek with a new found need. Derek pulls him into him even more, their chests flush together, erect cocks pressed between their stomachs.

"Oh my, God," Stiles moans into his mouth, hips moving against Derek's to find some source of friction for their throbbing members. A groan is punched out of Derek's lungs and he reaches down, taking both his and Stiles' dicks in one hand as he begins to jack them off.

Stiles whines, high and keen as he trembles against Derek. Derek closes his eyes, releasing breathless moans at the friction his hand supplies. The hot stripe of Stiles' cock next to his, rubbing together is over whelming.

"Derek. . ." Stiles whispers. "I'm gonna. . . I need to—"

"I know," Derek murmurs back, lips pressed against Stiles'. He kisses him again, swiping his tongue over Stiles' bottom lip as he jacks them harder. "Come for me, Stiles."

Stiles groans, the sound more stimulating so Derek speeds up. He can feel it pooling in his stomach - he's close.

"Come for me, baby," he whispers. "Let go."

Stiles comes with a scream, and it's enough to tip Derek into his own. The orgasm hits him abruptly, punching a cry out of him, tearing at his throat as him and Stiles cake torso's and chests in strips of white. Stiles is trembling against him, forehead resting on his shoulder as he pants. Derek feels the same, wobbly on his legs. He rests a hand on the tiled wall for support.

It takes them almost ten minutes to come down from their high, and when they do, they are utterly exhausted. Stiles is leaning heavily into Derek, bodies pressed flush together. Stiles' back shields their come-covered stomachs from the spray of the shower, so Derek takes it off the wall again and jerks his shoulder Stiles is resting on.

"Come on, let's get cleaned up," he says, pressing a kiss to Stiles' hair. "Then we can go to bed."

"Mmm," Stiles hums, lifting his head slowly. "I am going to hug the cuddle out of you tonight."

Derek snorts, shaking his head. He steps back slightly and cleans their stomachs.

"How's your shoulder?" He asks as he washes the water over Stiles' body, washing away the excess grim and sweat from the days earlier activities.

"It's okay," Stiles shrugs lightly, only with one shoulder, watching Derek through glazed eyes. "Felt worse earlier."

"You can take some tylenol when we get out," Derek replies, hooking the shower head back on the wall. "Do you want to order in or go straight to sleep?"

"I'm pretty beat," Stiles says. "But I could also eat a horse, and we both know you get cranky when you're hungry."

"I do not," Derek frowns.

"Yes you do," Stiles chuckles. "You get hangry!"

"Shut up," Derek growls, but it holds no heat as he turns off the water and steps out of the bathtub, helping Stiles afterwards. He towels them both off before wrapping the towel loosely around their waists and moving into the bedroom.

Half an hour later, Chinese has been ordered and they're both laying on the bed. Derek's only in his boxer briefs while Stiles has a t-shirt as well. Derek had applied a gauze wrap around his shoulder before he got redressed.

"What are you thinking about?" Stiles asks, breaking the still silence. He was curled up, laying on his side while his head rested on Derek's thigh, who sat up against the headboard.

"What Matt said in the club," Derek replies. The name flashes in his mind. Deucalion. "Do you know who Deucalion is?"

Stiles nods faintly. "Yeah, I've heard of Deucalion."

"Okay, who is he?"

"Some English douchebag out of Windsor," Stiles explains, shifting so he's on his back and looking up at Derek. "Came to Cali a couple of years back. Basically took over the drug and gun trade one block at a time."

"Yeah, but Matt Daehler and his gang kick up to him," Derek replies, remembering how Matt was reluctant to reveal Deucalion's identity until his life was proved to be on the line.

"Yeah, well, word if that Deucalion ate some dude's fingers in front of his crew. He's obviously one of those dramatic types,"

"Good," Derek nods. "Predictable."

"Yeah, but dangerous," Stiles replies. "I mean, you saw the hear that guys capable of bringing. Those guys tonight, they worked for Deucalion. They were pros, Derek." He pauses, sitting up and looking at Derek with more seriousness than he has done in a long time. "Derek. . . you got the guys who murdered Laura. Maybe. . . maybe it's time to cash in your chips, head south and stay there."

"No. No, no," Derek rushes. "It's not over yet, Stiles. It's not over. It doesn't end with Matt, he wasn't the one who ordered the killing. There's someone else, someone working higher. It's Deucalion, I know. He's my sisters killer too."

Stiles sighs, looking torn. There's a long stretch of silence, and then he's reaching over and grasping Derek's hand with his own.

"Okay," he replies.

*****

Derek went to Laura's house the next day. He needed answers to what Matt had said.

_It's not my fault she's a nosy bitch!_

The cruel words spun in Derek's head like a repeated record, over and over and over. It was maddening. He left Stiles to sleep, knowing the guy needed it, and drove from the motel back into the main town. He knows Cora has been over; on the day that Matt and his crew had driven past and shot Isaac. Derek just hopes she left Laura's office alone.

He uses the key Laura had given him when she first moved in to unlock the house. It was cold and stale, dust coating every surface. It looked bland and empty, Cora had done a good job at clearing it out in the short time she had.

He finds her office. It's at the back of the house, as if tucked away from the outside world. Nothing has been moved, nothing has been boxed or thrown out. Derek doesn't know if it makes him feel better or worse.

The office is laid out plainly. A large, dark oak wooden desk in the center of the room, a large cushioned chair behind it. Cabinets with drawers and cupboards surround the outside walls, all closed and the surface on top completely bare apart from a fine layer of grey dust.

Derek rounds the oak table. It's bare, with nothing on top apart from a closed laptop and a pen pot. It's so unlike Laura, but so like her at the same time. She's someone who is messy and cluttered - her bedroom always was when they were younger - and whenever Derek came over when she was alive, every room was messy.

But her office is completely different, and somehow that suits her as well. Laura was more than a private person, she liked to keep her personal life personal while knowing everything and anything about everyone else. Everything in her office is tucked away, kept out of sight and in hiding.

He sits down in the leather chair, sinking into the cushions that creak from recent lack of use. His eyes scan over the table top for a moment before he leans forward and opens the laptop. He has no idea when it was last used, but he's surprised to find it turns on immediately. He stops for a moment as the small arrow hovers over Mail, wondering if this is going too far.

Should he just leave it? Should he stop digging himself deeper and deeper into this?

Maybe Stiles is right. Maybe he should just leave it like this, maybe he should leave Laura to rest. What will he do with the information he finds? What can he do? If someone more powerful then the thugs that killed Laura are behind it all, how much power does Derek have to get justice?

The questions go unanswered in his mind as he clicks on the mail tab. It opens up like an envelope unfolding. Derek straightens his shoulders as he scrolls down, eyes scanning over the read emails. Most of them are junk, trashy advertisement or deals Laura would have never invested in. He stills when he comes across a single one that stands out like a sore thumb.

It's from Gerard Argent, the founder of the Beacon Hills Court House and Ferderation Service.

Derek hearts sinks as he reads.

 **Re** : Violence Justice.  
**From** : Laura Hale  
**To** : Gerard Argent

_Ms Hale,  
The argument you have published regarding violence justice in Beacon Hills is invalid. You have no proof of faulty trials in the jury or the bias opinions you claim my employees possess. Everyone we have prisoned and sentenced inside the Court House have been pledged guilty for factual reasonings._

_If you wish to proceed this insidious affair to claim that my jury's decisions and the justice system inside the Federation Service, then I can assure you that your complaint will be filed and investigated._

_Kind regarded,_

_G. Argent._

There was a tab below the email, and when Derek clicks on it, it opens up with a sequence of earlier emails, all under the same subject of Violence Justice.

He starts from the beginning.

_Dear Mr Argent,  
I am contacting you on behalf of the Violence Justice campaign I have set up. My campaign is petition based supported to fight for the right to unbiased jury services and chosen charges given to guilty and not guilty suspects._

_I have looked over many of your cases and sentences in the years since John Stilinski was murdered and the Sheriffs Department was handed over to the Court House. Because both of these services are under the control of you, I am lead to believe that you have caused this sequence of unreasonable sentences and misjudged opinions on the victims and suspects of various crimes in Beacon Hills._

_Please, contact me back when you read this email. Do not think I won't head forward with my campaign and fight for justice against the violent crimes in Beacon Hills._

_Laura Hale._

Gerard's reply was merely a mock to tell Laura she had no argument against him. Laura in her later emails listed proof after proof of faulty cases when the victim of a crime or violent act that was done by a street thug or drug ring leader was undermined and the crime was let go.

Derek felt his heart pounding in his chest when he looked over the emails. The first emails dated back as far as March, and the last one was dated on the 12th of May 2016, exactly five days before Laura was killed. The email was from her, speaking of how she was going to use the evidence she found to publicly expose Gerard's actions and the jury's mistakes.

Derek slammed the laptop shut as his vision bled red, veins burning as his blood boiled with rage and hatred.

_It's not my fault she's a nosy bitch!_

Laura didn't deserve what happened to her. Derek knew this, and nothing was going to change that. One thing Derek needed to know though, was what evidence did Laura have?

He launched out of the desk chair, looking around with desperate, seeking eyes. He looked through the filing cabinets, flicking through every brown file stocked inside the draws. Most of them were from her bank, separate monthly statements that Derek know she kept stock of after a fiasco when she was a teen.

He went through her desk draws, finding nothing apart from an assortment of colourful notepads and pen collections.

And then he spotted the brown box under her desk. He stares at it for a moment, waiting as if to see if the lid would pop off and a laughing clown would appear like a jack-in-the-box.

It didn't, so Derek reached under the desk and pulled it out.

Hours later, Laura's desk floor was covered in open files, pictures and documents covered in highlighter and scrawly hand-written notes: all of Laura's evidence.

*****

"Gerard killed her because she was a phone call away from exposing him?"

"Yes," Derek sighs, rubbing a hand down his face as he paced the space behind Laura's desk. His eyes were locked on the papers sprawled out on the floor in front of him, his hand holding the phone to his ear as Stiles waited on the other side of the line. "She had so much on him, Stiles. She was so close to showing everyone what was really happening and he killed her for it."

"Derek, I can hear the anger in your tone and you need to take a breath, man," Stiles replies with a hard tone. "You have just found a lot of information very quickly and you need to stop and process it."

Derek knew Stiles was right. He knew, deep, deep down. Which was why a moment later, he drew in a shaky, ragged breath. He held it for a beat, and then released, chest falling.

"Feel better?"

"No,"

Stiles snorts. "Didn't think so, but at least now you're more clearheaded. Now, tell me what you found from the beginning."

So Derek does.

He tells Stiles about the emails, about the threats back and forth between his sister and Gerard. He tells Stiles about the evidence Laura found, all her notes and highlighting. He explains every case, every flaw she picked out and proved.

He's out of breath when he's finished, hands shaking and heart souring because his older sister was killed for this.

"Well. . . shit," Stiles says, unhelpfully. "That's. . . a lot to take in."

"Tell me about it," Derek snaps. "It's not everyday you uncover the man who killed your sister."

"Hey, dude, no jumping to conclusions. We still have no proof Gerard is the one who—"

"Don't even finish that, Stiles!" Derek shouts, the fire in his veins back again. "How dare you even suggest that Gerard isn't behind this? What part of this whole situation doesn't point all arrows towards him?"

"Hey! You better watch your mouth, Derek, because I am the only man in this god-forsaken town that is going to help you. I am only saying that we shouldn't instantly assume Gerard is the murderer. Gerard is the most powerful and well-known man in this town. He's the ambassador and mayor of Beacon Hills, the dictator of the Court House and Sheriff Station. Everybody who's somebody is under his command, Derek. If we're going to deal with him, we need a reason that in the eyes of the law, is justice."

Derek sighs, again, for what could be the hundredth time that night. Stiles is right, but how do they get proof? They'd killed off everyone who knew anything about Gerard and Laura's encounters.

"Derek?"

"I'm gonna keep looking through all of this. I need to find something- find proof," Stiles says. "I'll call you back later."

"Alright, buddy," Stiles replies with a heavy breath, and Derek can hear the exhaustion in his tone. "Good luck."

Derek ends the call and tosses his phone on the desk with a harsh clatter. He sits cross-legged on the floor, reading through more of Laura's case files, going over them again and connecting them to the emails. Half an hour later, and he's had no luck connecting it to the evidence of Gerard's guilt, his phone buzzes on the wooden desk.

It's a text from Cora:

**_Derek, Sam is sick. Can you come help ASAP?_ **

Derek frowns, shoulders tensing. Something isn't right.

He stands, pressing the speed dial while he grabs his leather jacket and exits the office.

Stiles answers on the second ring.

"Figured it out?"

"No, but something is wrong with Cora,"

"Anger issues is a top one,"

"Stiles, I'm serious," Derek snaps. "She just texted me, and she never texts me. She always phones. And she called her son Sam, not Scott."

"Could it be a spelling mistake?"

"No. Something's wrong,"

"Alright, give me the address,"

"I'll send it now," Derek says, and he pulls the phone away from his ear to open up a new message and forward Cora's address to Stiles. "Done. I'm getting in the car now."

"Alright, I'll meet you there," Stiles replies. "Don't do anything stupid without me."

Derek hangs up, climbing into the Camaro and driving off the driveway so fast he can hear the tires _screaming_.

*****

When Derek got to Cora's house, he parked around back. Cora didn't have a back garden, but instead a large concrete spread without a fence around it. Derek parked a few feet down from the start of concrete to make sure no one saw from inside, before he climbed out and crept up the garden towards the house.

He could hear talking inside, crying and sobbing that could only be identified as Scott's. New fire burned with Derek's rage at the thought of his nephew witnessing this. 

Derek tried the back door, finding it open. He slowly crept it open, at the same time, pulling a sleek black pistol out of the inside of his leather jacket pocket. The door was silent as it swung open with horror-movie-speed. Derek stepped inside as the sounds silenced.

He walked straight into the laundry room, and two steps later he was standing in the doorway to the dining room. He spared a short peek into the room:

There was a white man sitting on the dining room chair, a bloody hand holding onto his shoulder closest to Derek. He was facing the archway into the living room.

Derek took a step, and just as the man shot up, raising his gun to shoot, Derek pulled the trigger twice. Loud shots rang through the house, alarming sharp and echoing. The guy grunted, stumbling and eventually dropping like a hot brick.

Derek made to run into the living room, gun raised, but Deucalion stepped out, his arm wrapped around Cora's throat and the end of his gun pressed into the soft flesh of her temple.

"Drop it!" Deucalion shouts. When Derek does nothing, he jostles Cora harshly, making her whimper and gasp. It's then that he notices the blood on Cora's lip. _"Drop it!"_

Derek has no choice. After a long beat, he lowers the gun to the floor.

"Kick it over," Deucalion snarls.

Derek clenches his jaw, eyes hard and glaring. He kicks the gun into the living room, out of reach. 

"Hands up," Deucalion orders.

Derek represses the urge to roll his eyes and he raises his hands, fingers splayed.

"Cora," he says. "It's going to be fine."

"Y'know, you're a hard one to kill, Derek," Deucalion starts. He turns his head, pressing his face into the brown hair of Cora's head, breathing her in. "Is your sister so hard?"

Derek scowls, glare so cold and killing like he could disintegrate Deucalion there and then. His heart was racing, hands trembling with bottled rage.

"I so want to kill you," Derek says slowly, voice low, hard and icy.

Deucalion smiles. "Is that so?" He lets out a mechanic, shrilling laugh, "I'd like to see you try."

A moment later, the window behind Derek shatters and a bullet flies in, imbedding itself into the small flesh of Deucalion's shoulder that isn't covered with Cora's body. Derek doesn't even need to look behind him to know it was Stiles.

Deucalion howls, throwing Cora to the side.

*****

Outside, the gun shot was louder than Stiles intended. He's standing across the road in the back alleys, in the opposite land block from Cora's house. There's a flight of stairs that lead to an upstairs room on a building that Stiles had climbed, setting up the rifle on the railings for perfect aim at Deucalion.

Evidently, the gun shot was too loud, as a moment later, a shadowed man was running around the corner, raising his gun and shooting before Stiles could react.

Pain flared in his shoulder so sharp he stumbled, foot tipping on the top step and his entire body weight being thrown backwards. He tumbled and rolled down the metal steps, grunting as he went, his body being bashed and bruised. 

His head is spinning when he finally get's to the bottom. He listens, seeking beyond the ringing in his ears to detect the thugs footsteps approaching. 

Stiles climbs to his hands and knees, crawling around a parked car at the bottom of the stair case. 

The thug expectantly rounds the car, right past Stiles, gun raised and apparently ready to see him at the bottom in a squirming heap.

Stiles jumps up. 

"Hey!" He shouts.

The thug turns, and Stiles fires the shot before their eyes even meet. He drops to the floor, blood spluttering from his chest.

Stiles steps around the car, body aching and arm burning. Once he's sure the guy is dead, he peals back his jacket to see the sodden t-shirt underneath, a torn hole in the shoulder.

"Motherfuckers," he curses, rolling his head on his shoulders because _fuck!_ They shot him _again!_

*****

Derek doesn't waste a moment. He launched forward, grabbing Deucalion by his shoulders and ramming him into the wall behind him. Deucalion grunts at the impact, but it wasn't enough to jar him off his game. He reeled back, landing a solid punch to Derek's jaw.

Derek punches back, rage burning in his blood finally unleashed. He grabs Deucalion by the back of the head, slamming his face down to his raised knee with a crack. Deucalion is slightly disorientated, so it gives Derek the moment he needs to flip him into the white coffee table behind them.

The table shatters under Deucalion's weight and Derek kicks, and kicks, and kicks the thug in the stomach, chest and face. 

Deucalion is still when he stops. Derek is panting, out of breath. His world comes back into focus all of a sudden, and he spins around.

Cora and Scott are curled in the corner beside the ugly yellow sofa. His eyes catch Lydia's body on the sofa, splayed out with a bullet wound in her chest, eyes open. She must have been here to go on the holiday with Cora and Scott - Derek had organised them to get a cabin in the neighbouring state, to get out of this action and violence while it blew over. Apparently Deucalion found them before they could escape.

"Cora," Derek breaths in relief because his sister is _fine_. His nephew is _fine_. They're _fine_. 

Derek approaches them slowly and Cora looks up from where she was curled around Scott as a human shield, eyes glassing.

"Hey, it's okay," Derek says and he crouches down, running and hand through Scott's hair. The kid is trembling. "Take him upstairs." 

"D-Derek—"

"Get him upstairs, Cora," Derek demands, but his voice is gentle. He knows Cora is shaken up. "This isn't over. You need to get out of here, okay?"

Cora nods shakily. She stands, pulling Scott with her, who's sobs and cries are muffled by the wrung out teddy bear he's clutching to his face. When they have disappeared up the stairs, Derek turns to Deucalion behind him. 

Deucalion is gaining consciousness.

Derek storms across the room, grabbing the man by the scruff of his jacket and pulling him until he's draped over the couch puff. 

"There is no reason on earth that my wife would have anything to do with a scumbag like you," Derek snarls. Deucalion's face is beaten bloody, swollen and ugly. "So, who's behind this?"

Deucalion says nothing, but Derek can spot the sadistic smile behind the bloody grim covering his face like a spread of strawberry jam.

"Who is behind it?" Derek screams. "Who?"

"It's. . . it's. . ." Deucalion rasps, breaking off with a cough. "You wouldn't believe me. It goes right to the top."

Derek's hands shake as he holds Deucalion's collar in white hands, knuckles colourless.

"The governor?" He asks. "Gerard Argent?"

He knew it. He so knew it!

"Did he order the hit?" Derek asks, and when Deucalion doesn't answer, he screams again, "Did he order the hit!?"

Deucalion opens his mouth, and then a shot rings out. His whole body jerks, eyes widening for a split second before falling flat. Blood sprays from his temple.

He was shot.

Derek looks up, the gun he was holding to Deucalion's throat rising as he faces the new company.

It's detective Whittemore.

"He always did have a bit mouth. Fucking tweaker," Whittemore says, looking down at Deucalion's body like it some kind of shame. He raises his head, looking directly at Derek. "I guess the cat's out of the bag, Mr Hale. Bad guy's dead. Now, if you and I work together, maybe we can put this whole this behind us," Whittemore suggests. "So, how do you want to settle this?" he asks. "The easy way, or the hard way?"

"The hard way,"

"Okay, well that's your call. Fair is fair," Detective Whittemore shrugs. "I should tell you though, I brought my own backup."

Just then, as if rehearsed, the front door behind Derek opens. He looks slightly over his shoulder to see Detective Raeken enter, the barrel of his own gun pointing at Derek's head.

"So did I," Derek replies.

Stiles comes in then, behind Raeken. Just as the detective turns around, Stiles is slamming the handle of his own gun hard enough in Raeken's mouth to knock him out cold. Stiles grabs the gun from the unconscious detective before his body drops to the floor.

Derek almost smiles at the drop of Whittemore's cocky grin. It's swiped off his face like a clean surface, replaced with a panicked, shocked expression.

The hold he has on his gun goes loose, putting his hands up in small surrender. "Okay, let's rethink this. Maybe. . . maybe there's an easier way."

"You're right," Stiles replies. "There is."

Fifteen minutes later, Detective Raeken is in the boot of Whittemore's car while Whittemore sits in the drivers seat, hands handcuffed to the steering wheel.

"Get them somewhere safe," Derek says, side-eyeing his sister and nephew through the living room window where him and Stiles stand on the drive.

"You know I will," Stiles replies. He's got his right arm cradled against his chest, blood staining the jacket he wore. "One day, some asshole is going to shoot me and actually hit my bulletproof vest. Then it'll prove to you that they work."

Derek scoffs. "One day."

Stiles looks up at him. He's only a few inches shorter, but it makes Derek's heart race when he looks up with those big brown eyes, like Bambi, glistening in the streetlights. 

"Be careful, okay?" Stiles says. "Come back to us. To _me_."

"You know I will," Derek replies. "But I need to do this alone."

"I know," Stiles nods. "I know you do."

Derek leans down, connecting their lips in desperation. Stiles kisses back, pressing their bodies flush together, every part of them touching. Stiles hand cups his cheek when he pulls away.

"Go kick some ass," Stiles says. "And then come back and kiss me like that again."

"Looking forward to it," Derek replies, and Stiles leaves with another kiss on his lips.

*****

Detective Whittemore jiggles the handcuffs that connect his wrists to the steering wheel of his car. Derek sits in the back, black leather and dark clothes camouflaging with the dark material of the seats. 

Whittemore drives through the streets of Beacon Hills that are mostly quiet and empty. It's late, everyone is at home with their families.

There's a sequence of banging coming from the back of the car: Raeken has woken up.

"Oh, come on!" Whittemore groans. "Can he even breath back there?"

Derek doesn't reply. He sits, stock still, pistol in hand, threatening and demanding. He meets Whittemore's eyes in the mirror, saying nothing, his face blank.

"Exactly how do you figure this is going to play out for you, Mr Hale?" Whittemore asks.

"I don't know," Derek replies lowly. After a moment, he leans forward, inching closer on his seat so he's whispering in Whittemore's ear, the barrel of his gun pressed to the detective's throat. "You came after me and my family, but there are drug dealers and murderers left on the street. You let my sisters killer go."

"You think I don't want to clip those assholes?" Whittemore replies.

"Why was Deucalion untouchable?"

Whittemore sighs. "Because Deucalion knows things about the Argent family that can ruin them. Things they've done in the past, mistakes his kids have made."

"So Deucalion had him on a short leash, huh?"

"Yeah, well, it cuts both ways. Deucalion does shit for him too."

"Like murdering my sister?"

"Listen, I had nothing to do with that. Neither did my partner,"

"Well you do now," Derek replies. "How much farther?"

"It's. . ." Whittemore trails off. He seems out of breath. "It's just right up ahead."

"You make this work," Derek snarls. "And hide those cuffs."

And then he's leaning back, hiding in the footwells of the backseats, completely unseeable.

Inside the Argent estate is huge. In the centre of large acres of green and forestry is a mansion, red brick and white paint.

It reminds Derek so much of his old home before it was burned to the ground.

Plaguing the grounds of the Argent estate are officers, walking in pairs, large guns held in their gloved hands. Maximum security.

Whittemore parks the car in the shadows of the car park, switching it off so the car is still and silent.

"You don't think he knows you'd try this?" Whittemore asks. "That's double the normal security out there."

"That's not your problem,"

"Don't be stupid," Whittemore snaps. "Just un-cuff me. Let me talk to him for you, and we'll make this all go away."

Derek represses the urge to growl and instead smacks Whittemore around the face with his pistol. He grunts once before slouching in the drivers seat, bent over the wheel.

The banging in the back of the car continues, Raeken fighting to get out of the locked trunk. Derek doesn't worry about that though, there so far from the security runs, and it's muffled behind the layers of metal that no one will hear him before it's too late. 

He climbs out of the car, lighting a cigarette he has in his pocket from Stiles. He places a fuel soaked rag in the cap for the petrol.

He takes a long drag of the cigarette, feeling the nicotine burn his throat and smoke fill his lungs. He exhales before resting the still lit cigarette on the wet rag.

Taking out the first few agents is easy. He hides behind trees, in the shadows. He uses hand-combat to knock them out, stealing their weapons after slicing their throats to kill them. He gets half way up the green towards the house before he opens fire.

When he stands on the house patio, he spares a glance behind him. The green grass is covered in bodies, like a bloodbath, something sadistic out of a horror movie.

A moment later, Whittemore's car blows up. Orange flames engulf the vehicle, licking the metal. He can vaguely hear the screams.

He doesn't have a spare moment to think about it as he battles and fights his way around the house, taking out all the security he meets before sneaking in the kitchen door into the house. 

The inside of the house is empty, all of his security walking the fields and acres of the house outside. Derek creeps through the rooms, feet silent on the floor. He comes to the main sector of the house: a large hallway with a grand set of spiral stairs at one end, leading off to various rooms.

Derek steps into the hallway, and a moment later, there's a bullet flying past his face. He ducks, looking to the stairs to see Gerard Argent, dressed in a pair of black trousers and white dress shirt stepping down, a large rifle in his hands. 

He shoots again, clipping Derek's arm. It's barely a skim, but the impact of it unbalances him. 

Gerard is in front of him suddenly, rifle coming down and colliding with Derek's head. He stumbles, falling to his knees.

Gerard stands in front of him, gun pointed to his face.

"Don't move," Gerard says, cocking the gun.

Derek looks up at him, the man looking older than when Derek saw him last.

"You must be Derek Hale," Gerard says. "How many more are there?"

Derek shakes his head. "I'm alone."

"How unprofessional of you," Gerard comments. "What do you want?"

"Justice," Derek answers. "You had my sister killed because she was going to expose you for the monster you really are,"

Gerard stares at him for a moment, and then he laughs. It's a big belly, rumbling, cackle that is like a punch to Derek's jaw.

"I used to be a bottom-feeder like you, Derek. Following orders instead of giving them. But then, I learned the way the world works. The trade-offs that must be made for the greater good. 

"Your greater good," Derek snaps. "Who else knew about Laura's plan before you killed her?"

"Everybody knew her plan. Everybody knew about her stupidity," Gerard says. "But I'm not the man you're looking for."

"Yes, you are," Derek growls.

"No, Derek. You're looking for your sisters killer," Gerard replies. "That's not me."

"You had them kill her,"

"I didn't make any orders for Laura to be killed," Gerard says. "I was going to take action, yes, but killing your sister was never part of the equation."

"And why should I believe you?" Derek snarls.

"Because I have no reason to lie," Gerard replies. "Do you really think, a man of my power, would go to so much trouble to squish out a fly in the system and cover it up? You came to me, Derek, I have no need to lie and cover up a crime I have not committed."

Derek didn't know what to say.

"I didn't kill your sister, Derek," Gerard says slowly. "The sooner you realise that, the sooner you can let this thirst for justice go."

"I will not have justice until my sister's murders are dead," Derek snarls. "You may have not made the order, but you made enough threats to be proven guilty."

"Oh, please," Gerard scoffs. "Those emails mean nothing. Emails are so easy to fake and fraud, no one will believe them, especially not against my word."

"Then I guess I'll just have to kill you,"

"But you won't, Derek," Gerard says. "Because I know you're not the cold-blooded killer you pretend to be. You never have been. You just got caught up in something ugly when you were too young to understand and now you feel that violence and death is the only way to get justice."

"Not all the time," Derek replies. "But in this situation, yes. Your death is the only justice."

Gerard sighs, shoulders dropping like he's trying to explain something simply to an incomplete child. "Derek, for the final time. I am not your sisters killer. But I do know who is."

The last sentence hits Derek like a bullet through the back. He doesn't say anything for a moment. The words spinning in his head like a out of control car tire.

_I do know who is_

_Who is_

_I do know_

_I do know who is_

Gerard _knows_.

And he did _nothing_.

"Who?" Derek whispers. The single word so quiet Derek is surprised Gerard hears it.

"He's closer to you than you think," Gerard replies. "Someone you trust, someone you wouldn't suspect."

Instantly, Stiles comes to mind. Someone _close_ , someone you _trust_ , someone you wouldn't _suspect_. He knows it a futile thought, and a stupid one at that. Laura was as much Stiles' family as she was Derek's, Stiles would never have been the one behind the orders.

"Who?" Derek screams, voice so raw and stripped. He's out of patience, out of time and out of fight for this. He just wants to know, he _needs_ to know.

Gerard doesn't answer him, just stands there, smiling like a maniac.

Derek snaps the final thread holding him together.

In a flurry of movements and flying fists, Gerard is on his back, nose bloody and bleeding, Derek is leaning over him, pistol out and aiming directly at the mans forehead.

"Tell me!" Derek screams. "Tell me who killed my sister!"

Gerard sputters, trying to get his breath back from the blows and shock. His white dress shirt is stained crimson red. "I. . ."

When he trails off, a spark of deep dark hatred flares in Derek's stomach. He points the gun down a fraction to Gerard's shoulder and shoots.

The older man screams as the bullet penetrates his shoulder with a violent tear.

"Answer me, Gerard, or the next one goes in your heart," Derek threatens. "Who. Killed. My sister?"

"P-P-P—"

Derek's shoulders tense as he sputters, finger twitching on the trigger. 

"P-Pe-t-ter," he chokes, eyes scrunched shut.

"Peter?" Derek whispers. "My uncle?"

Gerard doesn't reply, only letting out a pained moan. 

"Phone me an ambulance, Derek," he commands. 

"I don't think you're in any position to making orders, Gerard!" Derek snaps. "Do you mean Peter Hale?"

The single nod is all he needs.

His heart shatters in his chest, world caving in again for what feels like the millionth time. 

It was Peter. All this time, it's been _Peter_. His uncle, his flesh and blood. His family.

Words can't describe the ache he feels in his chest, the tremor shaking his hands or the thoughts spinning around in his head.

His mind is a haze, thoughts scrambled and shaken.

"I'm s-sorry, Derek," Gerard says, cutting through the silence of his mind like a knife. "N-now, phone me a—"

Derek pulls the trigger.

Gerard drops dead to the floor, a single dribbling of blood running down his forehead.

*****

Derek runs to Peters house. He lives on the outskirts of town, in a small, segregated cottage in the middle of the forest.

He sends Stiles a text, a single explanation:

**_It was Peter. It's always been Peter. I'm finishing this tonight._ **

He stands, looking at the cottage that on the outside, looks so innocent and small. So simple, so inviting. It's almost a complete contrast from Peter himself.

Derek knocks on the door, and moment's later it opens.

"Derek?" Peter asks. He's standing in a pair of pyjama bottoms and a grey v-neck. "What are you doing here?"

"You killed Laura,"

"Excuse me?"

"I know you did it. I just don't know _why_ ," Derek says, pushing past Peter and walking into the house. "I don't know why you would have done it. Why you had to kill one of the last living family members we have left. What did she ever do to deserve something so brutal, so punishing?"

Peter lets out a breath. "Derek, I don't—"

"Don't _lie to me!"_ Derek screams, spinning around and facing the man. "I know you killed her. I know you sent Deucalion's crew after us at the airport. I know you hired Matt Daehler. Ethan, Aiden, Ennis, all of them!" He stops, feeling shaky and exposed, vulnerable. It's been a long time since he's seen Peter. "Just tell me why. . . before I kill you."

Peter scoffs, rolling his eyes. He looks no different to how he used to. He hasn't changed. "Don't be ridiculous, Derek. You're not going to kill me."

"I killed everyone else. I'm getting Laura her justice, why would I stop now?"

"Why have you gone on this wild goose chase for justice?" Peter shakes his head, smirking. "You sound like Laura in one of her campaigns. You know, she never agreed with violence. I bet she'd be very disappointed with this facade you've done."

His tone was mocking, sarcastic and teasing. It was only fuel to Derek's fire.

"Don't you get it, nephew?" Peter hisses. "Laura was on her pathway towards exposing every unreasonable crime in Beacon Hills history. She was going to expose Gerard, the court, and the people who got let off."

"What has that got to do with you?"

"Because I killed Kate Argent," Peter replies, and for a moment, Derek's world stops spinning.

"What?"

"After the fire, I killed Kate Argent. She was behind it, and I wanted revenge," Peter snaps. "That's why I had to stop Laura from exposing the crime behind the fire because my ass would have been chewed and I'd be done for murder."

"But. . ." Derek chokes. "You didn't have to kill her? You could have just said, she wouldn't have—"

"Do you remember you're sister, Derek? Do you remember what she was like? She would have carried on; for justice."

"No," Derek whispers, shaking his head. "No. She would have stopped, she would have. . . you killed her for doing the right thing. You killed her for—"

"I was protecting myself, Derek!"

"Do you have any idea how selfish that sounds! How selfish _that is!"_ Derek screams. 

Peter sighs, exasperated. "This is why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd overreact."

"Overreact? _Overreact?"_ Derek shouts. 

"Calm down, Derek," Peter says, tone too calm and casual. 

It snipped at Derek's patients. His moral compass was spinning, lost in the whirlwind of his unmistakable rage for one of his last living relatives.

Peter isn't family anymore, he realises. Someone who did that to him and Cora, after all they've been through, will _never_ be family.

"I know you're angry, and I know you're grieving," Peter begins. "But coming here, will the plan to kill me was just absurd—"

Derek cuts him off with a sharp right swing, fist connecting with Peter's cheek with a harsh _crack_.

Peter dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. He looks up at Derek, hand cradling his cheek, fingers smudged red where the skin had split. 

"How _dare_ you—" Peter begins, but Derek cuts him off as he launches across the room, grabbing Peter by the collar of his v-neck and throwing him back onto the ground.

"You killed Laura!" Derek shrieks so loud, so raw his voice _cracks_. "You killed my sister! You killed your own niece!"

He's punching, swinging and slamming. Peter's body goes with it like a floppy rag doll.

His cheeks are wet when he finally heaves a deprived breath, lungs burning and chest twitching. His hands are red and bloody, skin on his knuckles torn and shredded.

Peter doesn't look much better. 

"D-Derek—"

"No!" Derek snarls. "You deserve to die."

Peter's eyes widen. His face is barely recognisable, just red and swollen. One eye is already closed. "N-no! Nephew—"

"I am not your nephew! I am not your family! You stopped being family the moment you made that order!" Derek snaps. "I should _kill_ you."

"But you won't," Peter whispers. "I know you won't."

"You're right, I won't. Because no matter how much I want to put a bullet in your brain, to watch the life drain from your fucking eyes, I'd much rather watch you rot inside a prison cell, going mad from the voices inside your sick little head," Derek snarls, voice so low it's almost unrecognisable. He feels like he's barely himself. So hollow, so empty. He's a shell of who he used to be.

Peter smiles, full teeth all bloody and red.

"I knew you didn't have it in you," he says. "You're weak, Derek. Always have been, always will be."

The small few words hit Derek harder than he expects.

"I am not weak," Derek replies.

"But you are, dear nephew,"  Peter laughs, or more like _cackles_. "It's almost embarrassing."

"As embarrassing as killing your niece to keep your dirty lie covered up?"

"No one is going to know what happened to Laura was my fault, don't you see?" Peter says. "You have no proof, Derek. The police are on your tail, hunting you down because you have left a trail of bodies in your thirst for justice. You can say I'm going to rot in a cell all you want, but it will actually be you, Derek, who is rotting in the cell. They're never going to believe someone, after all you've done, over me."

And the worst thing was, Peter is right.

Sirens sound suddenly. They're distant, and Derek almost morns for Stiles to walk in and say his traditional 'three minutes'.

Peter laughs again, blood and spit flying from his mouth. "Silly mistakes, Derek. Should have killed me when you had the chance."

"I still have the chance," Derek says. He pulls his gun from where it's tucked into the back of his jeans.

Peter's eyes widen.

"Derek—"

"You should have never underestimated me, Peter," Derek warns. He cocks the gun slowly, almost tormentingly. "Because karma always keeps receipts, and your warranty just finished."

"Derek, please. . ."

The sirens are getting louder, closer. He's running out of time.

"It's over," Peter whispers. "It's over, Derek."

"You're right," Derek replies. "It's over."

He pulls the trigger, the bang echoing in the small motel room.

Peter goes lax underneath him, eyes still open wide. He looks like Gerard, a dribble of blood, like a spill of red wine staining the cold skin of his forehead where the bullet cracked through the flesh and bone.

The room is suddenly filled with blue and red flashes, the police cars pulling outside. 

Derek stands, he knows it's over for him now too. He can feel Peter's blood speckled on his skin in little red spots. With the pistol still in hand, he heads to the front door, swinging it open and stepping out into the spotlight.

He can barely see, the light so blinding, but he can hear.

"Derek Hale," someone says, voice pitchy as if said through a megaphone. "We know who you are. Drop your weapon and raise your hands."

Derek stands stock still. The hand holding the pistol doesn't twitch.

"Drop your weapon or we'll open fire."

He can feel the bullet proof vest on underneath his black shirt and jacket. Time to see if Stiles' products finally work.

He raises his hand a fraction before the first shots ring out. The first one that hits him shocks him the most. He grunts, jerking with every bullet that hits and hits and hits and hits.

His chest is burning, ribs screaming. Pain flares in his shoulder when a bullet finally connects, his vision going white and his whole balance tearing south. He falls back, giving up on holding his weight and is unconscious before he hits the floor.

*****

The first thing Derek is aware of is sound. 

Everything is still black, it's still dark. He can't see, his body is numb. He's floating, mind a haze and thoughts scrambled. His limbs feel so light it's like he doesn't have any.

The initial thought it terrifying, until he remembers why he's here. He's in hospital, hopefully. 

He can hear people talking, the sound muffled as if behind a closed door.

"Your brothers condition has stabilised. I've gone and given the approval for him to be transferred in the morning," That sounds like a doctor.

"What do you mean, transferred?" That's Cora. Cora is here?

"Umm, perhaps you need to discuss that with your attorney," he hears the Doctor say.

"What's going on? It's been three days. When do I get to speak to him?"

"The da's office has filed a gag order," It's a new voice - his attorney, is Derek's best guess.

"Of course they have. The da's probably just as guilty as the rest of them,"

"They're going to transfer your brother directly to a federal prison hospital,"

"This is crazy!" He hears Cora cry.

"I thought your firm could help us here," Isaac. That is definitely Isaac. "He hasn't even spoken to a lawyer,"

"Because of your brother's background, this case has been declared an issue of. . . of national security,"

"Mr Hale?" Someone says, this time closer.

Derek finally finds the strength to open his eyes a crack.

A bright white light is beaming down on him. All of a sudden, he can feel everything. He can feel the throbbing behind his eyes, the aching pain in his chest and shoulders from the shooting. 

His mouth is dry, like he's been chewing cotton for the past 12 hours.

There is a nurse standing above him. "I'm just checking your vitals," she says. "Your attorney will be in in the morning to discuss your situation with you."

"I'm sorry, folks. Visiting hours are over," a new voice says outside the room, and Derek listens in.

All the voices is making Derek's head hurt, but he has to hear.

"So what? I just never see him again?"

"We have our orders,"

"What do you mean, visiting hours?" Isaac is shouting. "We haven't been able to see him at all!"

The nurse turns to leave, exiting Derek's hospital room. He shuts his eyes, feeling sore and tired despite only just waking up. He feels floaty from the morphine, mind sluggish and thoughts slow as if processing them is like running through deep snow.

And then someone is running in, the door bursting open so fast the handle cracks against the wall.

He opens his eyes, Cora's face coming into vision. 

She's hugging him, draping herself over him. Her eyes lock onto his, brown irises blown wide, so raw and helpless and desperate.

Something cold brushes against Derek's hand. Cora is tucking something under his covers, straight into his hand.

"Ma'am! Ma'am," a security guard is entering, grabbing Cora by the shoulders. "I need you to come out here right now,"

"I love you," Cora whispers, staring at Derek a little longer as if to make sure he fully understands the three words.

 _I love you too_ , he wants to say. But Cora's already gone, being dragged out of the room, out of reach and out of sight.

"Okay, okay. Okay!" He hears her screaming. "Get off of me! I got it."

And then he's alone, fingers curled around the body of the pistol she shoved under his blankets

*****

Derek doesn't know what the time is, or how long it's been when the door opens next. 

He's dozing, eyes closed. He cracks them open a fraction and see's a blur of blue moving to hide in the corner behind the door.

 _Stiles_ , he thinks, before the world folds away and he's asleep again.

He wakes to the sound of the door opening again. He doesn't open his eyes, thinking it's a nurse.

But it's too quiet. There's no rusting of paper, or gentle words to get him to wake up, or tapping of machines as they take his vitals.

He opens his eyes to the sound of the metal rings of the curtain scraping along the pole.

The first thing he sees is the gun pointed at him.

And then he sees the holder: Raeken.

He's dressed in a security outfit, half of his face burned and raw, red and disgusting. Derek realises he must have climbed out of the car at Gerard's before it blew, only just getting caught in the explosion.

"Mr Hale," Detective Raeken says. "It's time to settle the score for what you did to me and my partner. You know, after I shoot you for 'trying to escape', I'll be the hero. They might even let me be detective again."

Derek removes the oxygen mask covering his face with a shaky hand, revealing his glare.

"I got to wonder," Raeken laughs. "What's going on in that mind of yours right now."

"I'm thinking about my sister. How much I love her," Derek rasps. His fingers tighten on the cool metal of the gun. "And you, and your partner. And that you're just punks."

And then he's raising his hand, firing the shot before Raeken can blink. 

The ex-detective's head whips back with the momentum of the bullet penetrating his skull, a splatter of red blood spraying the hospital wall behind him.

Stiles steps out from behind the curtain as soon as the shot is fired, watching as Raeken's body drops to the floor.

"Is he dead?" Derek asks.

Stiles looks down at the body at his feet, then to Derek, eyebrow raised, "Well he's not looking that well," He snarks, tucks his gun into the back of his hospital trousers. "What were you thinking? I had him."

"Please," Derek rolls his eyes. "From where I'm sitting, he had me first."

"No. I had him, Derek," Stiles stresses. "And there's no need to thank me. But next time, do me a favour: just hold your fire."

Stiles moves to open the cupboard door in the corner, leaving it open as he goes to grab Raeken by his feet.

"Thank you for what?" Derek exclaims quietly.

"For the rescue," Stiles says, looking at him like he's lost his mind, while he drags Raeken's limp body into the cupboard by his feet.

"The rescue? That's. . . you're too late for a rescue,"

"Really?" Stiles squeaks, appearing back out of the cupboard comically.

"Yes!"

"Really?" Stiles repeats, closing the cupboard door. "What was your plan after you emptied your clip from your hospital bed? You gonna fight off the cops with your bedpan?"

"It was a one-step plan,"

"Well, fortunately, I have a multi-step plan," Stiles smiles. He moves behind the curtain, appearing a moment later with a large black rucksack that he dumps on the end of the bed. "And I packed a little bag for you."

"Where are we going?"

"Well hopefully anyplace but a federal penitentiary," Stiles replies, unfolding a wheelchair from behind the door. "You've got three minutes."

Two and a half minutes later, Derek is sitting in the wheelchair, dressed in a pair of black sweatpants and a hoodie, hood pulled up and face hidden.

Stiles wheels him out of the room, disguised in his scrubs. The hallway is thankfully empty and Derek doesn't have a moment to wonder where the other guards are before Stiles is wheeling them down the hall hastily towards a large _EXIT_ sign.

"Got a jet waiting for us in Maryland," Stiles explains. "We'll fly East, gas up in Las Vegas, and keep going."

"I saved your ass last time in Las Vegas,"

"No," Stiles replies. "I saved your ass,"

 _"Security,"_ a voice blasted in the corridor in the over head speakers, accompanied by a alarm. _"There's been a breach in ICU ward 3. Repeat. Security. All stand by orderlies report immediately. Thank you."_

Derek smiles when Stiles starts running, skidding around the corner.

 

**Epilogue:**

Cora sits on the decking chair, smiling at Isaac and Scott bickering. It's early morning, the road already busy with children playing and mums walking to the park at the end of the street.

The postman appears at the end of the drive way and Cora gets up, walking to meet him.

"Thanks," she smiles, taking the mail and flicking through it as she walks back up to the porch.

The last piece is a postcard, a picture of a Vancouver landscape on the front. She smiles, turning it over and reading the scribbled hand-written message.

 

_Cora,_

_I'm alive and well, thanks to you. Smart plan with the gun, saved my ass._

_I'm sorry I can't see you, but please know I am fine. I'm with Stiles._

_Until we meet again, my heart is with you and Isaac and Scott._

_Love, Derek._

_PS: and Stiles <3_

**_— fin._ **

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter titles are named after Bastille songs.


End file.
